


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [14]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Bar & Bat Mitzvah, Canon Jewish Character, F/F, Female Jewish Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith and Willow arrive in the Big Apple to visit Willow's grandmother. But when demons crash the party, both witch and Slayer are caught between powerful families who will stop at nothing to see their rivals go to hell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

   _It's only an island from the water._

   - Love and Rockets

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   "Remind me again why I'm doing this?"

   "Free lunch."

   "Ain't no such thing."

   "Thank you, grumpy grand old man." Willow remains fixated on the viewscreen of her phone. "Move back. I don't like those shadows on your face."

   The Slayer complies with grudging alacrity. They're sitting on an overlook a few miles from the entrance to the tunnel that will take them under the river to the isle of Manhattan. The Jersey stretch had smelled about like everyone said, but they're almost accustomed to it by now.

   "Besides," Willow continues. "If you can't handle one little old grandmother -- what makes you think you can deal with the inevitable meeting of the mom?"

   "I can handle myself," Faith retorts. "Can see you're gonna be a handful to keep in line."

   "And you might want to curtail that kind of joke around my family if you don't want them to think you're responsible for these." Willow's smile as she indicates the fading bruises on her face doesn't hide her seriousness. "You're still looking kind of knocked around yourself. They're gonna think we're National Enquirer _celebrity_ lesbians."

   "Thought I'd heal up by the time we got here." Faith's shrug belies her own concern. "Don't wanna miss the big day."

   "Not every day your cousin is a _bar mitzvah_." Willow had been hoping to stop and visit Katie and the rest of the Kurtz family on their way back through Pennsylvania, but in the end things had been too tight (and she won't say that aloud to Faith, even alone in the car). They've arranged everything by phone, text and email, scheduling their visit almost entirely around the ceremony.

   "You don't have to worry about me," Faith shrugs. "I don't need an open bar to have a good time."

   "Who's worried?" Willow looks up from the screen, taking in the real view. Faith sits on the edge of the precipice at an undoubtedly illegal angle, one knee drawn up to her chest, hair blowing in the breeze as she stares out over the river.

   "All those crotchety uncles? You'll get along with them like a house on fire." Willow frowns. "Which now that I think about it isn't exactly the most positive --"

   "You gonna take that shot while it's still light out?"

   "It's not even noon."

   "And we still gotta get across, find this place _and_ get a parking spot." Faith's expression remains serene, with a hint of smugness. "If you can find a parking spot in New York City without magic, I'll --" She considers briefly. "Never mind."

   "No. I'm interested." Willow goes back to fiddling with buttons, not trying to hide the amusement in her voice. "What would you do?"

   "I said never mind." Faith looks over, ready to tussle. There's a click as Willow takes the shot.

   "Perfect. One more?"

   "If it's perfect, you don't need one more." But the Slayer doesn't move from her perch.

   "It'll be fine." Willow observes her girlfriend through the screen, brought to miniature digital life. "You don't have to worry."

   "Who's worried?" Faith still sounds irritated. It doesn't help that they haven't spoken to any of the London crowd since before the great train incident. Both of them are ready to submit reports, anxious for updates on Dana's condition.

   "I mean you don't have to take it personally. _I'm_ worried, and she's _my_ grandma. Or _bubbeh_."

   "I get along great with strangers." Faith twirls an unlit cigarette in her fingers. "I got all kinds of rapport."

   "When you're not taking every chance you can get to do wicked and wanton things to their beloved offspring."

   "Thanks for makin' me hungry."

   "We're not spoiling your appetite." Willow makes a final adjustment. "See, first we starve you, so you don't spoil your appetite. Then we tell you to eat because you look so thin."

   Faith's brow furrows into a caterpillar. "What kinda logic is that?"

   "One person's logic is another's humor." Willow gets the shot and pockets her phone, walking over to rest her chin on Faith's shoulder, wrapping her arms around the Slayer. "Just be grateful this place doesn't have a dress code."

   "Believe me, I'm all kinds."

   "And you should think about coming to the rehearsal. It'll give you some idea what to expect --"

   "I'll think about it." Faith still isn't looking at her. Willow hesitates before taking the plunge.

   "My grandma's not that bad. At least I don't _remember_ her being that bad." Willow thinks back. "It's been years since I saw her for more than a few minutes. She was going to come to my graduation, but my dad talked her out of it."

   "I had a grandpa," Faith volunteers, her casual tone giving nothing away. "When I was little. He'd like, try to raise me when my mom wasn't around. Which wasn't often enough."

   "Well, that's...good." Willow plants a distracting kiss on her ear. "When was the last time you saw him?"

   "Dunno." Faith shrugs, back to a face of stone. "What about you? When's the last time you saw Grandma?"

   "I might have been...eleven? I remember I was nine when we flew to New York to visit her." Willow blushes. "I threw up on the plane."

   "Perfect," Faith chuckles.

   "No, literally. We were just getting on board, and...well hey, enough of my life story, huh?" Willow tugs on Faith's arm, encouraging her to hop down from the ledge. "Let's not keep her waiting."

 

 

   "_You're sure_?"

   "I just heard her on the phone." He glances furtively about, keeping his voice low. "They'll be here in a couple hours."

   "_You'd better not be jerking us around_." He can almost smell the fetid stench through the phone of the speaker's breath; taste the slime dripping from its teeth. "_Or there won't be enough of you left to circumcise_."

   "Little late for that." He somehow manages to sound nonchalant.

   "_We can work around it_."

   "You can ease up on the threats." He straightens his tie, taking one last look in the mirror. "Everyone's gonna get what they want."

   A baritone chuckle rattles with mucous. "_I doubt the witch is going to want her heart ripped out_."

   He stares down his unsmiling reflection.

   "It won't be the first time."

 

**


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (Act 1)** _

Are you as surprised as I am?

I'm doing good. Hope you are too.

Thanks for still being here.

Hopefully more frequent posting soon, including actual updates.

 

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/98227.html#cutid1))

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogfarm**](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/) ([damaged justice](mailto:realfrogfarm@gmail.com))

nits picked and hoots nannied by illustrious [](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/profile)[**strapping_lass**](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/)  
additional assistance by heroic [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/)

 

**1x05:**

"On A Night Like This"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Ever since he can remember, Rafael has had a way with words. His earliest memories are of trying to decipher that tantalizing secret code, to duplicate these things the world was made from. To read was as natural as drawing breath, and he quickly found himself unable to fathom life before literacy. Numerous teachers tried in vain to harness his gift, hoping in vain that tutoring other students would help overcome the painful innate shyness that plagued his every waking hour. But when the Torah spoke, it was a wordless voice that drowned out everything else: _I am, who I am. Now who are you?_

   His otherwise exceptional academic performance has been marred only by his loathing for physical education, unable to overcome his own prejudice that this phrase ranks among the greatest of oxymorons. If he continues to do well in school, he's thinking of applying to leave and pursue a more independent education. As legal guardian, his grandmother would have to approve. Without a firm career plan mapped out, he'll have to make a strong case. But if nothing else, there is the bittersweet advantage of lowered expectations.

   The perfect son. Except for one thing.

   He has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up.

   His grandmother's cat twines about his ankles, and Rafe reaches down from his chair, offering a desultory scratch. The expected yowl for further attention brings an answering groan from the room's sole human occupant.

   "Et tu, Mortimus?"

   Mortimer -- in the colloquial, Morrey -- jumps into his lap. Rafe leans back, massaging his hand as he contemplates the vast expanse of emptiness that stares back from the page.

   Maybe it's the pen. He's still attempting to wean himself from the pencil, as an experiment to try and help avoid the crutch of excess editing. No Luddite, he'd cut his eyeteeth on the latest and greatest word processors their school district had to offer. Still, he found himself drawn to something more permanent; the smell of ink, the glorious history of the Word. Or it could be the enormous chair, the unfamiliar angles and soft spots of his grandmother's luxurious study so unlike his bedroom at home. Regardless of the reason, today the words just won't come.

   _While truth may be defense against libel in American law, the accuracy of one's words does not lessen the harm of wrongful speech. In fact, the sin is often compounded..._

   He scratches out the offending sentence, trying to ignore the thump of the bass rising through the floor. The urge to rise and confront its source is rapidly overtaking the knowledge of how pointless it would be, when said source appears in the doorway with an upraised glass, wearing the usual infuriating grin.

   "She said it might be a long lunch." Nathaniel drums his fingers along the woodwork in time to the droning beat. Rafael's senior by a mere five years, his older brother has taken advantage of burgeoning testosterone since his sixteenth birthday to affect a carefully cultivated goatee that, in the appropriate light, renders him a casting director's dream of Shylock at his most sinister. "You need to relax."

   "Relax." Rafael fails to hold his sarcasm to a minimum. "_Nu_, with this racket he tells me to relax."

   "Is it too much to ask that you allow me to enjoy this amazing stereo?" Nat lifts his glass in a toast. "Do you realize what an absolute crime it is for these to be owned by a little old lady from Fort Lauderdale? Who never turned it past two, let alone eleven?"

   "I'm not asking for help --"

   "As if I could?"

   "But could you at least _try_ not to harm my concentration, and --" Rafael stops, staring at the pathetic bare space on the older boy's chest. "Where's your tie?"

   "Oh, this is too much!" Nat appears to reconsider an explosive gesture, as his wine veers dangerously close to escaping its glass and recoloring their grandmother's carpet. "It's a rehearsal! And you have to make a big production out of it, for God's sake -- sorry." He holds his free hand out in a concilatory gesture.

   Rafael doesn't react. Hardly the first offense, and he's sure it won't be the last.

   "Anyway, you can spare the outrage. I've got business elsewhere."

   Rafe finds himself torn between elation and disappointment, as usual. Nat smiles, a cheeky grin framed by untrimmed curls that threaten to brush his shoulders.

   "Don't you worry. I'll be there for the real thing."

   "Oh, I'll worry." Rafe nods. "It's what I do best."

   "And me?" Nat inquires, as if he knows the answer.

   "You don't worry enough."

   "And you worry too much. Always the _altekocker_. Like a little old Jewish mother. Everything's _tsurris_." He reaches out to ruffle the hair, reconsidering at the look in his younger sibling's eye.

   "Just relax. Like I did for my mitzvah."

   "You were drunk." Rafe's accusation is matter of fact. "And that's Bubbeh's wine."

   "Carmel doesn't count."

   "That's not --"

   "It's one glass." Nat smiles. "You won't tell, will you?"

   Rafe turns away, forcing himself not to glower.

   "Of course not," Nat concludes, savoring the aroma. "That'd be _lashon ha-ra_."

   "Why are you so determined to make my life difficult?"

   "You do it to yourself, little brother." Nat sighs and walks away, his words trailing down the hall behind him. "You do it to yourself."

 

**

 

   _Are you there, Mom? It's me, Willow..._

   Maybe not.

   _Hi, Mom. Remember when I asked you were that time black naughty evil_

   Hm.

   _Dear Mom: Remember when we visited Grandma Rosenberg, and I said I liked her better, and you said your mother couldn't help the way she was? And then you locked yourself in the bathroom and Dad told me to go have lunch with Grandma? Because despite my healthy and in no way rebound opposite of my previous Significant Relationship, there is occasionally some slight friction between me and my Present Partner who is absolutely not at all a reaction against type to my Former Now Unfortunately Deceased, and I almost called you the other day to ask some related advice before I remembered the old number's not only disconnected but the phone is buried at the bottom of a Hellmouth and at least you and Dad aren't there with it but you never called, you didn't even tell me you left --_

   "Will!"

   "Eee!" Willow slams down on her abused brakes. "I mean, what?"

   "No turn on red." The urgency and exasperation in the Slayer's voice causes Willow's foot to press down even harder. "Remember, _Red_?"

   "Only when I'm thinking about it --"

   "Well, think harder." Faith leans back, still clearly irritated. "Last thing we need is to get popped."

   "You should worry about other stuff." Willow eases through the turn, ignoring the frenzied Bronx cheers from behind. "Police I can handle."

   "This place is crawlin' with feds." The Slayer levels an intimidating glare at an approaching pedestrian, who will never know how lucky he is Willow chooses that moment to become reacquainted with the accelerator. "We get in a jam, and Queen B has to bail us out? She's gonna be holding that over my head 'til we're playin' shuffleboard and suckin' down dinner through straws."

   "And thank you in no way for that image."

   "You just need to relax." Faith's fingers pluck at her seatbelt, chafing at the restriction. "Go with the flow."

   "It's called defensive driving --"

   "No, it's being defensive. And it gets you dead. Or a fender bender." Even with both eyes glued to the bustling street, Willow can feel the Slayer's hard gaze upon her, driving the words home. "You need to carve out your own space."

   Willow tries not to wince at the fleshiness of the metaphor. She also tries to protest, but Faith overrides her as usual, by riding right over her. Carving out her space.

   "Yeah, you were an A student. Probably driver's ed too. But life ain't a classroom, and this ain't small town Sunnydale. Sure, I trust you behind a wheel before Spaz-o Summers --"

   "Darn tootin'," Willow grumbles, only slightly mollified.

   "But as far as what that says about you? Not so much."

   Willow's shoulders sag as she tries not to appear haggard, on the brink of exhaustion. "I should have just let you drive."

   "Not on your life," comes the immediate retort. "Not even _with_ a license. Well -- maybe if you were like, on the verge of death." The Slayer reaches over and chucks her under the chin. "Come on, cutie. Do your duty."

   "Don't talk to _me_ about duty." Willow manages a smile.

   "What about your --"

   "My GPS," Willow interrupts, with a crimson-cheeked nod at the dashboard. "Is doing just fine, thanks."

   "Too bad it couldn't give us the heads up on that highway robbery." Faith cracks her neck, clearly warming up for a well-rehearsed rant. "Six freaking bucks just to get outta Jersey?"

   "I thought you'd be more concerned with the loss of local color. You know -- now that even the infamous Hell's Kitchen has fallen victim to gentrification?"

   Faith is staring out the window, down the street. "Should be able to see it from here."

   "Huh?" Willow concentrates on squeezing through the gap.

   "Comin' out of the tunnel." The Slayer's tone is deceptively casual. "All the old tourist books...should be able to see 'em, lookin' south."

   "Oh." Willow maintains her focus on the road, momentarily unsure of where the discussion is headed. "You know, when that -- happened... Buffy was still dead. The second time, for real. And I couldn't help feeling...disconnected? It's not like I didn't _care_ \--"

   "Sure."

   "-- but in the apocalyptic sense -- it just felt like...one more part of the world was ending."

   "I was still inside when it --" Faith grimaces. "I was gonna say...no."

   Willow sneaks another glance at the Slayer, in between carefully negotiating the maze of traffic.

   "Musta been there about a year and a half, maybe." Faith stares out the window at the seething mob of metal and flesh. "Bunch of us glued to the tube, when --"

   "Yeah." Willow says, a little too quickly.

   "And there's a couple hoots and hollers -- y'know, bangin' cups on tables crap. And some other girls are makin' _ssh_ noises and then everybody shuts up -- those people start to jump, and...these stone cold, hard ass bitches...all start cryin'. Every one."

   Willow remains silent, following every word as she does her best not to let it distract her. Still she can't help but see it in her mind's eye, the gasps and mutters turned to tears as they fall: Some chillingly at rest, others desperately flailing their arms in doomed flight.

   (_quite a ride_)

   "Guess it was like you," Faith continues. "'Cause I wasn't really... disconnected. I'm just standing there, not having any reaction -- 'cause it's too much. One more part of the world comin' to an end. Not my job." The Slayer exhales mightily. "Not anymore."

   "Right."

   "But the next day, I'm listening to some of the girls talk, and they actually --" Faith clears her throat, sounds ready to spit. "They said they were glad to be inside."

   "You're kidding."

   "Glad to be inside." Faith nods, one corner of her lip twitching up. "Where it was safe."

 

**

 

   Nathaniel's first real argument with his parents had been the Halloween that Rafael turned six, when the older of the two brothers expressed a desire to go Trick or Treating with friends. The resulting argument between their parents sent Rafe to the bathroom to be sick, and Nathaniel storming from the house only to return the following morning; the prodigal appearing on the doorstep with ashen skin and the terrible, glass-eyed stare of one who has glimpsed the gates of Gehenna. Rafe sat by his bedside until Nat finally opened his eyes, and asked the completely honest and sensible question: _How many times did you throw up?_

   The silent glare had apparently been enough to cement Rafe's opinion on the matter, as well as shape a great deal of his growing mindset regarding much else. His little brother might be smart, but there are so many things Rafael doesn't understand -- may be incapable of ever comprehending. And how can he, steeped as he is in the grey and fuzzy realms of something as ambiguous as the word? Let him have all the words in the world, and welcome to it. Nathaniel, in stark contrast, will take numbers every time.

   Even if liars figure? Figures don't lie.

   Unless you're just another statistic.

   There are those who claim that he reduces everything to numbers. He thinks of it as recognizing the value in everything, in everyone. The price of an object, or even a human being, is always subject to interpretation. But know what someone values, and you know them, as much as any man can know another.

   For years, Nat imagined himself the wise one; still plays the role to perfection. He always thought he knew his limitations. Pity it took this long to learn otherwise.

   But where there's life, there is hope.

   _Know thyself._

   He hadn't lied, entirely. He had left the relative safety of their bubbeh's townhouse not only to conduct business, but to access the public internet unavailable within those walls. Certainly there was a computer, mostly for Rafe's use when he was there. But as far as Nathaniel was concerned, without a connection to the network of networks, it might as well be a brick.

   He had business there as well.

   "How come I never sees you wif da fancy ladies no more?"

   "Hello, Ollie." Nat doesn't look up from the keyboard as the other boy slides in beside him. The coffee is as bad as the wireless connection, but the popularity of this particular joe joint makes it the most secure location. "How'd it go?"

   "Like a clock da bomb." The young man's affected patois can't hide his genuine satisfaction. "Business up tree hunnerd percent this week. You really knows how to hackum. _And_ pick da ladies?"

   "Life's too short to spend it chasing after women." Nat accepts the palmed flash drive, underneath the table. "You'll realize that some day."

   "You is not even tree years older than me, an' --" Ollie's face falls. "Aw mon, now I _know_ you is not queer. 'Cause that a sin against Jah an' I an' I."

   "Matisyahu is more Rasta than you," Nat scoffs. "You're a white boy from the Bronx who wouldn't need a religious justification for his smoking habits if he would just break down and move to California where all the glaucoma patients hang out."

   "You is not no real New Yorker, you know that? Cause none of dem would say what you just said, an' it's only 'cause we such good mates that I forgives you."

   "Apology accepted." Nat hides a smile and shakes the proffered hand, matching the finishing soul power flourish.

   "Don't mention it. Now where was we? Oh yeah, you is queer. Whassup with that?"

   "I'm not --"

   "In that a sin for your Jewish peeps as well?"

   "When Hashem pronounces judgment, it won't be for anything I've done with this tool." Nat points from his crotch to his forehead. "Just this one."

   The other man snickers as Nat looks over, capturing his gaze.

   "The body is a temple. But the mind God gave us is what separates us from the animals. Abusing that -- for him, that's like the ultimate slap in the face."

   Ollie purses his lips. "You fink?"

   "Pretty sure." Nat doesn't smile. "Nobody likes a smartass."

 

**

 

   "You're not taking me seriously at all!"

   "And if you really think your uptight relatives are gonna be less freaked by the gay than your 'chosen career path' --"

   "I'm not even looking at you! There is no need for finger quoting, and I was trying not to yell --"

   "So don't."

   Willow manages to remain silent and take a deep breath. Faith enjoys the results even as she wonders how far tough love will get her this time. Red may have been the reassuring one until now, but the closer actual contact approaches the more the tables have turned. Not only must Willow -- in her own opinion -- conceal the very existence of the supernatural from her unsophisticated and apparently myocardial-prone brethren, but in addition will be forced to come up with all manner of pretty lies about what she's been doing since graduation

   (_"I never even finished college! I just disappeared from campus one day and never returned --_")

   what she plans to do in life

   (_"My mom was furious when she heard I turned it down. A guaranteed job at a major software company! She was on the phone for hours --_")

   and possibly religious matters of philosophical significance, which are murky enough before the additional complication of their

   "-- relationship. Because it _is_ a relationship, it's not a marriage and maybe --" Willow sounds mopy and defeated once more. Faith prefers mad. "Maybe you're right and they'll just stone us. Except my grandma."

   "You think she'll be cool with it?"

   "I don't have any reason to think otherwise." Willow frowns. "I don't really have any reason to think _wise_...clockwise?"

   "Save that big brain for not gettin' hit." Faith watches approvingly as Willow does just that. "Good call."

   "Are we there yet?" Willow asks, plaintive.

   "Not even close." Faith is without remorse. "I told you -- I'll let you know when I see it."

   Willow sounds as though she's swallowing another protest. Faith waits, forging ahead when none proves forthcoming.

   "You told me to worry about other stuff? You should take your own advice." The Slayer attempts a more reassuring tone. "She's your grandma, not your parole officer."

   "You know, all those Jewish mother jokes exist for a reason." Willow spares her a sarcastic sideways glance. "And the only way to make it worse is to exponentiate the relationship. Square the circle, as it were."

   "Is that supposed to sound scientific or something?"

   "Besides," Willow continues. "You told me it's okay to be nervous. You should take _your_ own advice."

   "I'm not nervous." Faith's reply is a hair too quick on the draw. "Not like it's an apocalypso."

   "Meeting inlaws is stressful enough, even for straight couples --"

   "I said I'm not nervous." Faith dials back the vehemence. "Just don't wanna piss anybody off. Less I'm tryin'."

   "You don't need to try," Willow chuckles.

   "That's my line." But Faith knows she still looks twitchy, in a way that can't be blamed on her girlfriend's driving skills.

   "Trust me," Willow nods. "Short of showing up wearing a little tiny mustache -- there is no way you can beat my unfortunate childhood incident."

   "You don't say?" Faith perks up. "Dish."

   "Oh no. Xander tells it much better." Willow checks the street signs once more. "Let's just say it was nearly six months before my father allowed him over again, and that Movie Night at the Rosenberg residence was forevermore denied the comedic stylings of Mel Brooks."

   "C'mon. You can't tease a girl like that --"

   "Seriously." And Willow sounds much more so. "I need to concentrate on not ending up in a pretzel. Like we almost did in Washington, which was far less stressful? I _knew_ we should have flown in," she concludes, barely under her breath.

   "And get shot down in flames when someone mistakes your broomstick for a boomstick."

   "I meant the regular way." Willow spares her another glance, more of a glare. "In a big metal phallic symbol?"

   "No ID. Remember?"

   "Faith, we've been through this. You need to bug Giles so I don't have to do the nose-wiggle, _these are not the Slayers you're looking for_ every time we get pulled over."

   "Pulled over?" Faith smirks. "How they gonna do that? With a lasso?"

   "Now you're just being difficult."

   "No, I'm bein' sarcastic."

   "With you there's a difference?"

   "Look, you wanna can it or cram it? Your call." That came out warmer than planned, but Faith's on a roll after holding back for the last few hundred miles. "You've been riding my ass ever since Katie's with this passive-aggressive crap."

   "O-okay, there has been no riding, of any kind --"

   "Got that right," Faith mutters, before she can stop herself.

   "Oh no you _didn't_ \--"

   Willow's cellphone chooses that moment to interrupt, blurting out a theoretically random selection: _That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well..._

   "Yo, Willow on Wheels." Faith glares over at the other seat. "What?"

   "_I'm terribly sorry. May I please speak to Willow?_"

   "She's kind of occupied not running into stuff? I'm sorry, this is Faith." The glare becomes devilish as Willow's eyes widen in horror, the witch silently shaking her head. "Pleased to meet you."

   "_Oh, the pleasure is mine._" The matriarch's voice is rich and hearty, like the finest chicken soup. "_You may call me Abigail. I can't wait to meet the undoubtedly lovely woman my little *goenik naches* managed to --_"

   "Grandma!" Willow's howl is carried away on the wings of semi trailer horns.

   "I get by." Faith kicks her feet up and lights a victory smoke. "Nice of you to say before you open the box."

   "_I can see you'll do well at the reception,_" Abigail chuckles. "_Now then, more importantly -- what I must have been thinking I have no idea. Making that poor girl drive, her first time in the city --_"

   "It's not my first time," Willow feebly interjects.

   "_ \-- just don't move, I've got a car on the way. They'll park you in a private garage, you won't have to worry about a thing. What are you going to do?_" The rhetorical nature of the question does nothing to diminish the sunniness of its disposition. "_Spend your time wisely. While you're here -- leave driving to the professionals._"

   "But the wi-fi!" Willow's protests appear more than token. "I was looking forward to learning the new traffic system that lets you know when there's a parking spot and when in Rome I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth..."

   "_Precisely._" Abigail's voice crowns the moment as Willow stares dumbly out the front window, one foot on her brake, eyes locked on the mounted policeman returning her gaze.

   Faith appears to barely notice the remainder of the conversation, and Willow finds herself reduced to mindless pleasantries, trying not to make a spectacle of herself. The Slayer doesn't relax when the cop waves them on. _Argument averted...unfulfilled sexual tension...rising..._

   "Can I have my phone back?"

   "Depends." Faith dangles it by the antenna, tantalizing. "When were you gonna tell me her name was _Abby_?"

   "What's wrong with Abby?"

   Willow's defensiveness is back, with a full chorus. Faith swallows an aggressive response.

   Thank God the trip's almost over.

 

**

 

   Charlie Papazian hardly ever cooks anymore. Time was, everything that came out of that kitchen was made by his own two hands. Now he just sits here, smoking -- less since the doctor convinced him -- watching with an eagle eye whatever might be going on. But every dish that comes out of that kitchen is still as good as his name.

   And his word.

   His brother, Little Tony, got in trouble for a lot of things. One of them was being too big for his britches. In comparison, Charlie's kept his own nose effectively squeaky. He's no criminal. It's just that people know him. Trust him. With that normally comes power, and responsibility. Instead, he's managed to parlay it into that rarest of commodities: Security. Offer that, and actually deliver -- a man can name his own price.

   He hasn't seen Nat for a few months. Quite honestly, he'd been starting to feel a superstitious dread that disaster would strike, leaving him lost without his one and only favorite tech support guru; the smart aleck kid who kept his rig up and running, this piece of metal and plastic and electricity and _ideas_ he'd come to depend on for his business, for his family. Those fertile concerns had quickly taken a darker path, encouraged by a vivid imagination and too much familiarity with the subject to breed contempt. Until today when the young man himself showed up on his doorstep wearing that same old smile, his curling hair longer than ever, bringing to mind black and white photographs of hippies destroying the nation.

   "I gotta admit, I told her -- you watch, I said. Our boy's finally made good on them family connections. Got himself some real work with a serious prospects." Charlie pokes the air with his unlit cigarette. "You think he'll come runnin' over here every time those kids start screwing something up with their damn spyware?"

   Nat nods, looking distracted as he turns off the vacuum. "Little dusty is all."

   "Maybe so. But you don't know how much grief you save me havin' to crack that thing's chest." Charlie rubs his beefy forearms. "Don't even like pushin' the button. Always thinkin' it's gonna zap me with a million volts, straight through the heart."

   "Well, you know what they say. It's not the volts, it's the amps." Nat reconsiders. "Of course, you need volts to push amps."

   "You're too skinny." Charlie shakes his head. "And maybe you hear that from your family all the time, but they sure ain't feedin' you right. So what'll it be? Anything you want."

   "Special sounds good." Nat doesn't look up as he slides the side panel of Charlie's computer back in place.

   "Special's ham and bean," Charlie offers, with some caution.

   "I _can_ read, you know." The cheeky grin vanishes. "Don't worry. I'll still be Jewish."

   "Seems you're the one oughtta worry about it." Charlie doesn't smile. "How you figure?"

   "Because I'll feel guilty for enjoying it."

   Charlie can't help but smile at that. Still, he finds himself examining the kid with greater scrutiny, in his best covert fashion. Their first meeting had been a disaster for both of them until Nat let spill something about his brother. That got Charlie's attention. Got him thinking about his own brother. Made him reconsider first impressions.

   Now Nat surprises him yet again, remaining upright at the table instead of slouching in a booth. When the steaming bowl is brought out, it takes everything Charlie has not to stare as the kid closes his eyes, sits there for almost a minute as he savors the aroma -- nowhere near a greedy inhaling -- before quietly, reverently, and with impeccable table manners, consuming every last drop.

   "You okay, kid?"

   "That was excellent, Charlie." Is that a tear in his eye? "Thanks."

   "Mi casa." Charlie shrugs, torn on whether to abide by the time-honored code of manly conduct in these situations.

   "I was just...thinking, lately. About the ones who died in the camps."

   Charlie has his own thoughts on that whole grisly business, but he doesn't share them. He's always been a better listener.

   "Imagining how easy I have it, compared to them. And I can't help wondering -- would they have starved, rather than eat swine? If that was all there was? Would the Almighty truly condemn a man who faced death on a desert island, if he didn't eat wild boar?"

   "Ask a rabbi." Charlie shrugs again at the obvious joke. "I assume you have?"

   "They've all got different answers." Nat shrugs back. "Some questions, I'm done asking."

   "Wild boar?" Charlie moves past this conversational roadblock with practiced ease. "Kinda Robinson Crusoe."

   Nat remains grim. "I was thinking more Lord of the Flies."

   "You in trouble, kid?" Charlie's gentle smile never wavers. Nat merely shakes his head, and the older man returns the gesture with an air of fatalism.

   "Always got some kinda hustle goin', dontcha?"

   "I wouldn't say I'm a hustler." Nat rises from his seat, covers his mouth for an almost dainty belch. "Or a hipster following fads. Rebellion for its own sake is so high school, don't you think?"

   "You've always been fast on your feet." Charlie concedes the point, fixing a stern gaze on his wayward son. "But you bite off more'n you can handle -- you know who to call. And it ain't them that raised you."

   "You're a prince, Charlie." Nat wipes his hands before shaking the other man's hand, waving to the comatose geezer in the corner and taking his leave.

   Charlie's still looking after him when a scaly claw descends on his shoulder.

   "_He's a nice boy._"

   Razor tips squeeze, sink into skin through his freshly laundered shirt.

   "_Let's talk about him._"

 

**

 

   The taxicab turns out to be a chauferred service, practically a limo to Willow's small town eyes, but she's in no mood to enjoy the change of scenery. Still trying to smooth things over, patch things up and other such metaphors that make her wish Xander was around to give constructive advice. To her that is, not Faith, because Faith would never accept criticism even if she deserved it and really it's thoughts like this that keep her from opening her mouth before its time.

   Unfortunately, this makes for a chilly ride when Faith quite naturally assumes she's being given the silent treatment. At which point, any equilibrium between them tends to get lost in a game of chicken, or dissolve into a bloody shootout. Which hasn't happened yet, but give it time.

   She's not usually this much of a pessimist. Maybe it's low blood sugar.

   "We should hit the subway."

   "Huh?" Willow comes out of her fugue on a vague sense of alert. The Slayer's voice is pitched low, for her companion's ears alone. Their driver, a supremely bored fellow of middle age and receding hair, ignores them with an air of supreme abandonment.

   "Long as we're here." Faith keeps a casual eye on the driver, no doubt ready to snap his neck if he looks to be eavesdropping. Or karate chop him into unconsciousness.

   "Your clarification is not so much." Willow hopes the tickle in the back of her skull isn't another impending migraine. "Most people don't go out of their way to go where the muggers are -- oh," she finishes, lowering her own voice. "No sunlight."

   "Ever," Faith confirms. "All that vitamin D deficiency? Lotta work for a --"

   The driver glances in the mirror.

   "-- budding young nutrionist like myself," the Slayer concludes with a roll of the eyes. "And her spunky exercise coach."

   "I'm still mad at you." Willow folds her arms, fully aware of how petulant this must look. Also petty, pouty, and probably other words that start with a --

   "Makes two of us." Faith grimaces, looking away. "You know what I mean. Takes two to make an argument."

   "I don't want to carry this through lunch." Willow takes the other woman's hand, stroking stiffness from iron tendons. "And I know you were sick of it before it started."

   "Darn tootin'," Faith mutters, not meeting her gaze.

   "So for now, why don't we..." She swallows. "Pretend it never happened?"

   Now Faith looks at her, startled and suspicious. "Doesn't sound like the new you."

   "I don't mean in the avoiding reality sense." Willow shifts in her seat and steals another glance at the driver, apparently ready to seize upon a vacant inch of real estate. "Just...if we need to talk later. About this, or about anything -- we will. Right?"

   Faith's hesitant frown torpedoes hope out of the water. From the look on her face, the Slayer is assuming any answer will be the wrong one, and Willow is opening her mouth to reply to this as the vehicle comes to a halt.

   Thankfully, the driver doesn't ask for a tip. Or comment on her _faux pas_, her indiscretions, whatever she was trying to rationalize them away as this time. It's just that she feels very odd holding onto Faith's arm, not merely because they've been fighting in a way that makes her tummy gurgle and nearby pencils quiver, on the verge of launching themselves skyward. Her vision is constricting, bordered by a grey fog of anxiety that leaves her her light in the head, unable to stand without support.

   "You okay?"

   _So much for not noticing._ "I'll be fine."

   _You'd better be_, Willow thinks as she registers lowered light, the din of the street fading to a not so dull roar. She might have underestimated the difficulty of maintaining her boundaries in a city this huge, this

   (_overwhelming_)

   But it isn't.

   The coven didn't sacrifice her for the greater good, or confine her into a cloven pine. They gave her everything Tara had always tried to explain, all the while knowing they were risking their lives. Xander had thrown her a line, but the coven was the raft she had floated on for months, adrift. And Faith --

   She can do this.

   "Will," the Slayer whispers. "Lose the deadhead look --"

   "Willow!"

   The exuberant exclamation lends additional force to the sensation of being slapped into wakefulness, enveloped in a lavender embrace. Willow can feel the power draining away as she regains control; see, in her mind's eye, the color of the forest returning to her own formerly blackened pupils. Another minute and she'd have had to concoct some fairy tale about a cream rinse fluke.

   "Darling, you look wonderful. And you must be Faith --"

   "Indeed I must."

   "And so modest." Even at her age -- whatever that may be -- the elder Rosenberg is nearly three inches taller than Willow, carrying herself with impeccable posture as she peers down at them. "No last name? Are you a musician?"

   "I can sing," Faith replies, deadpan. "Can't say anyone ever paid me to."

   Abigail chuckles, and the Slayer takes this as license to expound.

   "I sang once, in church. Tryin' out for choir? But my mom said all the priests were kiddy diddlers, so she pulled me out --"

   Willow's eyes are starting to adjust as the rest of her senses return to normal. The restaurant is ritzier than she was expecting, but the matriarch appears unconcerned with their comparative dishevelment.

   "Thank you so much," she offers, remembering her manners. "For the car, and the parking, and -- well, everything."

   "Money. At my age, what am I going to do but spend it?" Abigail looks at her watch, emitting a cluck of her tongue. "Unless I keel over waiting. We should have gone to Katz's --"

   "Mrs. Rosenberg?" A server appears, as if by magic. "Your table will be ready any moment."

   Willow's bladder reminds her then and there just how small it is, and what a long strange trip it's been. The call of the restroom, no matter how urgent, is eclipsed only by the horrific concept of leaving Faith alone with her grandmother.

   Then again, some things are inevitable.

   The washroom is immense, high ceiling and tile floor lending additional amplification to the whispers of her clothing, the splash of water as it spirals down the drain. Her face in the mirror is paler than expected, bringing out the crimson undertones in her hair and eyebrows, emphasizing the fading bruises from their most recent adventure.

   Her penultimate fears are realized when she locates their table, with Faith and her bubbeh in the middle of laughing at something. Willow doesn't have the heart to ask as she slides into the chair, doing her best to remain unnoticed.

   "Hey, babe." Faith turns her attention to the waiter, standing nearby in starched and funereal garb, his gaunt face bearing all the stoic humor of a Buckingham guard. "Steak and salad. Medium rare."

   "Ah." A slight frown creases the delicate, unblemished forehead. "The steak salad."

   "No," Faith declares, calm but pointed. "A steak...and a salad."

   "Of course." The waiter conceals his fluster, recovering with admirable haste. "The side salad. And your dressing?"

   Faith stares at him, not backing down. "_Chef_ salad."

   The waiter's face blanches like a sack of suet. Faith raises an eyebrow of challenge.

   "Dinner size."

   The waiter utters a discreet cough, looking very much ready to flee.

   Willow's thoughts are racing and disjointed, barely able to collect herself sufficiently to stammer out a hasty chicken salad and lemonade before sinking back in her chair, relieved to have survived a moment of social interaction.

   "Pay no attention to him," Abigail chuckles as the waiter disappears with her order of brisket and wine. "He's always been like that -- _oy!_" She abruptly lowers her glasses, peering at Willow.

   "I told you about that little rock climbing accident," Faith interjects, smooth as can be. "I got the worst of it, but I heal fast --"

   "Child, you look as though you've been through a cement mixer!" Abigail clucks her tongue, shooting a quick glance at Faith.

   "I'm fine -- really." Willow maintains eye contact, forcing herself not to reach for her own waterglass as a distraction. "It was my own fault jumping in too fast. No sense getting a good workout if it hurts more than it helps."

   "You're already doin' better keepin' up with me." Faith's expression is not quite blatant enough to be deemed smirkworthy.

   "As long as you're careful." Abigail sighs. "Then again, being careful is overrated. At my age, one appreciates the less dramatic luxuries. Such as a heated mattress." She turns to Faith. "I'll bet your knees were skinned constantly, as a child."

   "More often than not." Faith seems unperturbed by the apropos turn in the conversation.

   "You have that look about you." Abigail shakes her head as she offers a toast. "Same as my Stanley and his _chaverim_. Holy terrors they fancied themselves, back in the day."

   "You do the Karnak with all the new boyfriends?" Faith lifts her own glass, returning the flamboyant gesture.

   "Boyfriend?" Abigail lifts her gaze, peering down and over her spectacles. "Is that what you consider yourself?"

   "I like to think we're enlightened enough to move beyond labels." Willow fumbles with her own water, very much conscious of the million and one signifiers that the two of them must be giving off. Or appear to be. Whatever.

   "Whatever." Abigail shrugs, moving on. "Your father -- who I trust is in good health, last I heard? As if I ever hear from him..."

   "He's fine." Willow almost draws a horrible blank before remembering the hasty phone call some months back, having tracked her parents to a social semiotics conference. "Him, and Mom -- yeah, he actually suggested I should come visit if I was going to be in the area. Not that I wouldn't have on my own -- I mean --"

   "Don't worry about it." The elder Rosenberg cracks a sudden smile. "One Jewish woman talking to another and I say, don't worry about it? Is this the definition of insanity?"

   "Naw, that's -- mm." Faith sets her glass down, rising from her seat with an inadvertent jiggle. At least Willow hopes it's not on purpose.

   "Be right back," the Slayer offers. "Been a long trip."

   "Of course, dear." Abigail turns back to Willow, "Now where was I...oh yes, did you know -- Ira was far less shocked than your mother when you -- what do they call it, the coming out party?"

   "He was?" Willow blinks. "He never said...I mean, of course he wouldn't, when I took -- um -- Tara...they were both --"

   She fumbles to a stop, as her grandmother nods again.

   "This Faith -- a nice girl, for a _goy_. But this you expect me to say, I'm sure. Am I right?"

   "Um..." Willow sits up straighter under the older woman's sharpening gze. "Maybe?"

   "But...a bit different from your previous. Am I also right?"

   Willow has thought about this, but not so much as to have an immediate response. Namely, the extent of the knowledge of her extended family might have regarding her. How much? Who can say?

   "Sheila mentioned her to me once." Abigail takes a healthy sip of wine. "So frustrated she was on the phone! Saying she'd met this girl a grand total of two times, and it was like pulling teeth to get two words. For your mother, this is quite the hardship."

   The witch swallows a giggle, opting for a discreet sip of water.

   "And so you see how when I meet this one, I think she is...probably not the same?"

   "Right. Well...no." Willow smiles, trying to suppress a blush. "Faith is definitely not shy."

   "And has she ever hurt you?"

   Willow pauses just long enough to think about context. The question is not accusing, or overly careful.

   "Less than most of my friends."

   Abigail's frown deepens. "Do you think she would?"

   "No." Willow shakes her head. "Absolutely."

   (_begging for some deep pain_)

   "Forgive me, then." The older woman's face betrays little, though she appears for the moment content. "How _did_ you meet?"

   "We...had a common interest in local politics?" Willow tries not to cringe; no way she'll buy it --

   "Yeah." Faith slides into the chair beside her, jarring Willow out of her reverie once more. "I was, uh...working with Mayor Wilkins. On his staff."

   "And I was doing research on artifa--" Willow clutches her waterglass. "Voting -- record -- pattern artifacts."

   "I see!" Abigail's smile and shake of the head are beneficent rather than patronizing. "Rock climbing, politics...you two are quite the pair. And I mean that in the best way."

   "Wait 'til you get to know me," Faith states with utmost gravity, enjoying the sight of a matched pair of waiters, bearing down on their table with groaning platters. "I'm even better."

 

   The ensuing carnage being limited to their victuals, Willow is only just sufficiently recuperated to contemplate dessert. Except the nagging sense of guilt at the thought of overindulging, combined with growing unintentional intimidation, results in her deciding not to decide. Faith being under no similar compunction, the Slayer orders a sizable slab of something between cake and concrete boasting fresh espresso, dark chocolate and bourbon; tucking away each bite with glacial silence for eleven and a half minutes before pushing away a pristine plate and declaring it "best ever, so far."

   "You're sure they can't tempt you?" Abigail has likewise cleaned even the crumbs of her lemon meringue. "Though I still say we should go to Katz's. While you're in town, before they close down, you never know --"

   "I'm good," Willow raises her glass. "Plenty of time for dessert later. More room for it later...plenty of celebrations still to come. Am I right?"

   "Rafael's a fine young man. He took it very hard when his parents divorced." Abigail's gaze narrows, shrewdly predicting a point. "Have I mentioned how much I hate hearing that? So-and-so got married, or they got a divorce -- it's a verb! You marry, you divorce, it's a verb, get over it!"

   Willow gives into the giggle this time, feeling better already, and her grandmother smiles.

   "He was always a very devout sort of boy. But when his folks split up, he plunged headlong into Orthodox life like you can't imagine." Abigail takes a sip of coffee, surveying the ripples in its surface. "And look at your folks. Everyone said it was the end of the world, Ira's gone and married some Reform girl -- gave them two, three years tops."

   "I haven't seen them in --"

   "Don't they spend most of their of time apart? All those conferences, traveling..."

   "Speaking of which," Willow hastily interjects, spotting Faith on the way back. "I was going to ask if you could recommend a decent hotel --"

   "Absolutely not." Abigail's finger springs from her coffee mug like a laser pointer. "You and Faith are staying at my townhouse. And _not_ to save money on a hotel."

   "Um..." Willow clears her throat. "Yay?"

   Beside her, Faith hums the theme to _The Jeffersons_.

   "Rafael and Danielle, they're already staying there for the rehearsals. All you kids -- you'll be good company for each other. And speaking of rehearsal..." Abigail glances at the clock on the wall. "You're welcome to come along --"

   "I'd love to," Willow interjects, before Faith can voice an opinion. "We're not doing anything else -- are we, sweetie?"

   The Slayer contents herself with a silent eyeroll.

   "Wonderful." Abigail pulls forth her credit card from an enormoushandbag. "Then let's get moving!"

 

**

 

   The last thing Faith can be accused of being is a gold digger. Still, surf and turf is what it is.

   She could get used to this.

   Her girlfriend, on the other hand, she may never. While physically recovered from her earlier dizzy spell, the witch appears to be getting antsier ever since they left the restaurant. Not like it's obvious -- Willow is chatty all through the ride down through the lower east side -- but the flush of color in her cheeks is that of embarrassment. At first Faith thought it was her; that she used the wrong fork, or said _fuck_ too many times (it just slipped out the once). But when she tunes out Abigail's happy chatter, the pointing out of touristy landmarks or some nostalgic reminiscence, she thinks she can see where Willow's head was at.

   Usually she dreads "quality time alone". At least spent talking. But something like this demands attention. Unfortunately, the rest of the day is booked solid.

   "Rafael! Ah, my _borucha boychik_!"

   "Bubbeh, please --"

   "Hold still, I've got it." Abigail's kerchief makes short work of the offending spot. "You remember your cousin Willow?"

   "Just barely." The flustered _mitzvah_ offers one hand, clutching his kippah with the other to keep it in place. "How many years has it been --"

   "Oh, she was right!" Willow envelops him in a hasty hug, pulling back to get a better look. "You are _adorable_!"

   Rafael swallows, managing a smile. "You're not going to pinch my cheeks, I hope?"

   "Somehow, I will resist. Oh, you are so -- okay, I admit I was gonna say cute, but is it okay if I also say you are a most handsome young man? Not that I'm the best judge..." Willow appears to realizes she's still holding his hand, letting it go with a final _um_. Rafael glances at Faith standing beside her, foreboding and intimidation on his face as he appears to put two and two together.

   "Howdy." The Slayer offers a friendly, toothsome smile. Rafael nods, doubly uncertain.

   "Now honey, are you sure you've got everything --"

   "I'm fine, bubbeh." The obviously long-suffering young man endures another wipedown. "I just didn't think we'd have have this many people."

   "Just the rehearsal my foot," Abigail mutters, stowing away her handkerchief. "Mark my words -- for the real thing? Three times as many. For you _and_ the open bar."

   "About that --" Rafael blushes. "I mean, you know I'm not trying to reject Hashem's gift of life, but --"

   "You're not encouraging drunkenness." Abigail's proclamation is far from stern, but no less final. "Even if I wasn't footing the bill, someone would be. I don't care how many alcoholics a family has. For a mitzvah _or_ a wedding, you skip the open bar? You're just asking for a riot."

   Rafael sighs, bringing a smile from his grandmother.

   "Trust me. If someone is bound and determined to get drunk, they're not going to let you or I stand in their way. Now go on, don't be late --"

   "I'm not late yet! But I will be..."

   Willow turns to Faith with a guilty smile.

   "Hard to believe I used to be that bad."

 

**

 

   In Willow's perspective, a rehearsal for a bar mitzvah differs only from the real thing by virtue of degree. A thing is what it is, and yet at some point the ritual becomes reality. It's about perception, and labels.

   Deciding what you want to be.

   "I was going to be a software engineer."

   "Huh." Faith appears utterly engrossed in the ceremony, but responds readily to the quiet whisper without sounding absentminded. "You said he gets to pick what part of the book to read?"

   "Yeah. He doesn't have to actually read anything, just make the blessing, but --"

   "You okay?" Faith's head is cocked ever so slightly, only increasing Willow's own abrupt and runaway train of thought involving _Yentl_ and the idea of her girlfriend in a yarmulke.

   "Fine!" Willow chirps, wincing as Rafael glares their way. Or how about Faith in an Israeli uniform..._No! Other thoughts!_

   "So what's the deal with Palestine?"

   "Um..." Willow has to wonder, once again, just how fleeting the nature of the connection between herself and the Slayer truly is. "Well, like any humanitarian I'm conflicted at best...it's a whole Native American, Spike getting shot with arrows kind of thing and I'm just not up for it right now but we could look on Wikipedia later?"

   "I think I got the basics." Faith's humor is dry as the desert. "You got boned. Then you boned them. And now, you're boning each other?"

   "Um..." Willow sighs. "Yes?"

   "Sounds like Southie all over." Faith smiles, with less humor. "You wanna see conflict? Try a bar on Saint Paddy's and some Hahvahd trust fund case comes in wearing orange."

   Willow's imagining, all too well, about to respond when she feels inexplicable eyes upon her. She manages a discreet head turn, scratching the back of her neck; resisting the urge to simply reach out with her mind and see, to _know_ \--

   "Who's little miss gothateria?"

   "Who?" Willow follows the Slayer's gaze, taking in the teenager a few rows behind. The girl is impeccably attired, all in black, now studiously ignoring them while casting a surreptitious glance back in their direction.

   Faith nudges between her ribs. "She's been checkin' you out."

   "That doesn't happen at these things -- okay, you know I'm more disturbed that was my first response but you need to..."

   Faith opens her mouth as the doors at the rear of the room crash open, a pair of blurred figures flying through in a heap of snarls and growls.

   "Keep your voice down," Willow finishes, deadpan.

 

**


	3. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (Act 2)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | musketeered  
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**Current music:** | Doom Squad - Burnin' Up  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (Act 2)** _

Clucking bell.

In a good way.

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/98227.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/101714.html))

 

  _Buffy: So one minute I'm unobtrusively observing my little cousin's mitzvah rehearsal and having various inappropriate thoughts which are totally beyond the scope of this letter, which technically has infinite scope since for now I'm still writing it to you in my head. And the next the doors have exploded open and I'm going over the usual impending-doom scenarios: Did I wear clean underwear, have I updated my will..._

   Then her internal focus threatens to collapse, senses flooded by the sudden reek of power. Waves break and crash against her island fortress.

   Willow remains outwardly composed, keeping her shields relaxed, yet hopefully undetectable and impenetrable. With nearly a decade under her belt in both dealing with the supernatural and concealing it from all those around (family members in particular), a person tends to forget how normal people react to the appearance of real live monsters.

   Usually, it involves screaming.

   This is no exception.

   An odd calm flows through her at the surrounding screams of panic, as well as a warm, fuzzy wave of nostalgia that keeps her first reaction in check. Which is naturally to unleash thunder and lightning and everything else in her bag of tricks. More proof -- hardly needed -- that Faith is rubbing off on her. Possible pun intended.

   Instead, she observes with detached calm as the demons pour into the _shul_ like rats driven mad by an unheard piper, snapping at heels and skirts and pant legs, sending the readily cowed humans into a circle around a stunned Rafael. Not quite the hulking, reptilian dogs of Ghostbusters, because despite their appearance they don't move like dogs. More like snakes. With legs.

   Thinking of snakes usually makes her think of either frogs, or Mayor Wilkins, neither of which Willow prefers to dwell upon. Suddenly the panicking crowd is less objective observation, more audience participation. Flashes of crackling, black and white film; men in uniforms herding those in rags...

   Reaction is winning out over resistance. Power flares in her brain as she rolls up her sleeves, preparing to drop the bomb.

   Then a hand is on her elbow, rock steady; another at the small of her back, guiding her with the others into the circle.

   She looks down to find a short, balding man, surprisingly unwrinkled for his obvious age, his slight and wiry frame looking almost emaciated in an ill-fitting suit that even Willow -- still and always from the softer side of Sears -- would rate as not even one step up from Whistler's.

   He flashes a flinty, Clint Eastwood smile.

   As suddenly as it left, her calm returns.

   The look in Faith's eyes is easy to read, even without the tense muscles and coiled posture. But the Slayer nods in acknowledgement at Willow's silent warning, through the minor magic of telepathy: _Not yet._

   If someone gets hurt?

   Then the gloves come off.

   A silent figure strides past them, the tall, gaunt shadow taking no heed of their presence. The arrogant posture animates a resplendently plain tailored suit, shining with understated elegance. Clearly a man wholly accustomed to obedience.

   "Nice threads," Faith murmurs.

   And likely, the source of that power she felt. But even if it can't hold a candle to her own -- let alone a match -- now is not the time to get into a pissing contest. Endangering others and drawing attention is the impulse of a younger, more...impulsey Willow. Now is the time to be wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.

   "What is the meaning of this?" With iron steadfast composure, Abigail doesn't find her voice so much as inject it into the proceedings. "Who do you think you are, bringing these _bestye_ in here?"

   "Who I think I am?" The man's face crinkles in amusement, smile framed by a perfectly coiffed mustache and goatee. "That's rather irrelevant. I could think myself the Emperor, but that wouldn't make it so."

   "'Make it so?'" Faith snorts. "Watch too much Next Generation." Willow does an incredulous double take that earns a guilty look from the Slayer. "And I been hangin' with you guys _way_ too long."

   He ignores her, addressing Abigail. "As for the meaning -- that depends entirely on who you are."

   "_I_ am Abigail Rosenberg." The elder draws herself up to her full height. "And you, young man, are in deep trouble if I don't hear a perfectly good explanation for this."

   "Young man? You flatter me."

   "Don't flatter yourself. Speak, and leave us in peace." Abigail snatches her hand back from a inquisitive snout, whipping out an enormous kerchief and giving her fingers a vigorous scrubbing. "And take these _things_ with you."

   "Now your grandson," the man continues, unperturbed, as though she hadn't said a word. "There's a young man. Quite literally. And one who has managed to accumulate an impressive amount of debt for his age. Or should that be a depressing amount?" A light shrug. "Again, it depends on who you are. All about perspective."

   "I see." Abigail's demeanor grows chillier. "Assuming you aren't referring to _him_ \--"

   "Bubbeh!" Rafael interjects, in shock and anguish. "I've _never_ gambled!"

   "And why do you assume it's about gambling?" The man observes Rafael for a moment before returning his attention to Abigail. "But you are correct, madam. It's the elder of your offspring from whom I'm looking to collect."

   "Regrettably, he chose not to attend. And you should be thankful my old English teacher did the same, her being I forget how many years in the grave." Abigail squints through her spectacles, inspecting the demon snuffling at her feet. "I assume you carry a sizable scoop."

   "I assure you, no harm will come to you or your carpets." The man smiles again, the briefest flash of polished teeth. "As long as young Nathaniel renders what is due. But I've taken enough of your time," he concludes with a magnaminous wave of one elegant hand, finishing with a slight bow. "Forgive my intrusion..."

   He pauses, glancing at the eastern wall with its elaborate hangings, covering the doors to the ark. Rafe looks ready to interpose himself between the Torah and the jaws of death, and even Willow steps away from the man at her back, ready without hesitation to join her younger cousin in defending the scrolls.

   The man smiles.

   Then, he isn't.

   The stench of ozone fills the air as the roomful of astonished Jews -- minus one _goy_, and one less astonished Jew -- stare at the empty space formerly occupied by a man and his demon dogs. Willow is still processing the crowd's reactions to the disappearance of the intruder and his minions, even as she she furiously analyzes said disappearance. Maybe he was never there, remote projection --

   "What the hell just happened?" The goth girl's voice is flat as a pancake.

   "Language," Abigail responds by rote reflex, the warning an idle afterthought. One little boy starts to sniffle, only to be hoisted and shushed by an older woman.

   "Language, you want?" The girl sounds like a teakettle working up emotional steam. "How's this? Verbing weirds noun!"

   "I'll kill him." Rafael's fingers clutch relentlessly at his _kippah_, turning it in his hands, plucking the fabric as though trying not to tear it in two. "I know, it's such a cliche but how _dare_ he, of all the stupid, _selfish_ \--"

   "You don't know." Goth girl is back to bored, but still shaky. A young Wynona Ryder in _Beetlejuice_, she stands aloof, ignoring the milling hordes of confused oldsters and sniffling children. Willow recognizes her as the one who had sat behind them, in the women's section (and hadn't _that_ been a fun discussion, finding herself in the unenviable position of defending the _mehitzah_ as being not at all akin to female oppression in generality or specificity).

   "Didn't seem like a threat," Willow mutters under her breath to Faith. "More like a show of force..."

   "Right there with you."

   Faith joins Willow in blinking at the shabbily dressed little man now regarding them with a bright, intelligent gaze.

   "He used his _name_," Rafael is insisting. "How specific do you want --"

   "My ears, they burn!"

   A freshly stunned silence falls on the room as the concealing mantle falls to the floor, revealing a smirking figure behind the ark itself. Willow can feel her heart sink at the sight of a dashing, handsome young dude. Just the type Faith would undoubtedly flirt with...

   "Don't like him," the Slayer mutters in her ear.

 

**

 

   Faith scrutinizes Jacob-come-lately, trying to pin down just who he reminds her of. Depths of guile in that friendly grin, and more than a hint of the number two rebel who tries harder. The hippie haircut and disarming bemusement more than hint at the chronic stoner, yet her Slayer senses don't detect the slightest scent.

   Will doesn't appear to recognize the guy, but sudden tension radiates from the witch regardless, far in excess of her reaction moments ago to the presence of his hunters. So Faith observes him, and everyone else.

   The balding man breaks from the crowd and strides up to the newcomer.

   "Kid." A finger jabs into the kid's chest, hard enough to send him staggering off balance. "You want the yad shoved up your _tuchus_?"

   The boy reddens, but doesn't respond.

   _Yeah_, Faith decides. He may as well have taken a dump on the altar.

   "Give me that --" Rafe snatches the cloth from the interloper's grasp, who backs away with upraised hands. Willow looks to be squinting at the squiggly alphabet around the recessed part of the wall, and Faith would be paying more attention but she's focused on the new guy, who's become the center of a veritable hurricane.

   "How _dare_ you!" Rafael's hands tremble as he restores the mantle to its proper place, his cheeks the same flaming red as Willow's when Faith does certain things in public. Or private.

   "You said that already." The new boy gives an amiable shrug. "I _was_ here. And on time."

   "You come here, like this -- bringing who knows what kind of trouble down on our family, on these _innocents_ \--"

   Another shrug. "No one's innocent."

   Faith finds it hard to disagree.

   The older boy continues with unruffled equanimity. "If you're going to call me a --"

   "I never did!" The scarlet in Rafael's cheeks approaches lavender.

   "But you were thinking it."

   "So he knows what I'm thinking now!" Rafael throws his hands into the air, turning to the staring onlookers. "He's the Shadow, everyone! Sees into the hearts of men!"

   "I'd always rather you said what you think." The older boy doesn't sound sarcastic. Almost sad. "How you feel."

   Rafael apparently feels something very strongly, as his eyes abruptly threaten to pop from his skull, his trembling finger pointing at the other boy's chest. Faith catches a glimpse of the pendant, a huge Star of David on an antique chain.

   "Let me guess," the older boy sighs. "Sacrilegious? Or just an empty gesture?"

   Rafael devolves into incoherent splutters.

   "Oh, don't worry." His tormenter is unrelenting. "It's like a horseshoe. They tell me it works even if you don't believe in it."

   "He always does this!" Rafe manages. "All my life --"

   The boy merely nods, a smile playing at his lips. Rafael continues to rave on, finally running out of steam and standing there, breathing heavily.

   "You want your inhaler?" the boy inquires.

   Rafe looks ready to burst into frustrated tears.

   "That's enough." Abigail's voice is icy as an Arctic stream. "Willow, this is your cousin Nathaniel. Who just happened to be leaving?"

   "Oh, Bubbeh --"

   "That'll be enough. I'll speak to you later." Abigail sighs, seemingly for more than rhetorical effect. "Your uncle Oscar would be _so_ disappointed."

   Nat scratches the back of his neck under the long, shaggy curls, but Abigail has already turned away, dismissing him from her presence.

   "Danielle? You and the others get this mess cleaned up. I'm taking Rafael home."

   A chorus of _bubbehs_ nearly drown her out, but Abigail merely regards them with a threatening glare. The balding man appears ready to speak up when she sends a pointed glance his way.

   "And must you be leaving as well, Armin?"

   "Since it's Shabbos..." The little man offers a wry smile. "I'll see you another time."

   "I'm glad you could attend." Abigail remains polite, if stiff.

   "My pleasure." He tips his hat and pops it back on his head, arranging it to cover the growing bald spot.

   Faith watches Nat slip away while everyone else is still distracted, and it doesn't take a superspy to see the old guy following after with a grim look. She would join them, but come hell or high water, her place is at a certain redhead's side.

   So much for a vacation.

 

**

 

   It turns out their place is in the back seat, after the two of them are hustled off to the 'safety' of their might-as-well-be-limo to be ferried back to the townhouse. With Abigail's primary concerns apparently now revolving around her genius grandson getting enough oxygen, Faith is perfectly content to ditch the crowd for the relative safety of one on one. She's pretty sure she caught the older woman giving Willow a furry eyeball, and given her girlfriend's vaunted paranoia, she's already building up a healthy dread for the implications.

   "Did you see those?"

   "Huh?" Faith hates these little role reversals, where she inadvertently comes across all absent-minded thinker.

   "The lettering. Around the ark?" From Willow's tone this is indeed apropos of nothing, a blurting out of thin air. Good. For a second, she thought she was going senile.

   "Saw you check it out. Figured you could read it." Faith manages not to sound overly pathetic. "What'd it say?"

   "More like what it did." Willow stares out the window, fingers idly twining in the Slayer's. Faith feels a vague urge to pull away, but apart from her usual weirded- outness, there's no real reason.

   "Do I get to buy a vowel?"

   "I mean -- sorry." Willow squeezes her hand, still engrossed in the passing buildings. "He couldn't have picked a better hiding spot. I'm just wondering if he knew the implications, and..."

   "And?" Faith prompts.

   "Doctor Strange lived here!" Willow's free finger points out the window as the redhead practically bounces out of her seat. "This is the Village and Doctor Strange lived _right there_, and how cool is that?"

   Faith can't help a chuckle at the other woman's flushed, enormous grin. "You sure you're not Xander?"

   "Well, he's _something_ we have in common." Willow finally turns, her cheeks a deeper scarlet. "Sorry."

   Faith settles for a silent return squeeze. Kind of surprising she doesn't get more snark over that.

   "Can we stop in the park?" Willow goes to tap on the glass, then thinks better of it. "Sir?"

   "I'm a chauffeur, not a babysitter." Their driver pulls over without losing a beat, edging out an enraged mother of three before retrieving a book from the glove compartment and settling in. "Have fun."

   "Um..." Willow looks slightly lost.

   "You heard the man." Faith grabs her unresisting hand, exiting the vehicle before the redhead can object. The driver remains engrossed in his pulp fiction, not sparing them a single glance.

   Willow quickly kneels to unlace and remove her boots, followed by purple socks.

   "See?" the Slayer teases. "Knew all you needed was to get in touch with nature. What the rest of us call dog --"

   "You think I need a seeing eye dog?" Willow rolls her own before leaning back and closing them, drinking up the sun as her toes wiggle in the grass. "Oh, boy..."

   "You okay?"

   "Much better." Willow blinks away the obvious light head, gesturing toward the water tower. "Come on. I commune with the earth, you get to play with the statues."

   "What if I don't wanna go ask Alice?" Faith wrinkles her nose as they approach the bronzed figures. She can envision millions of tiny hands over the years, rubbing them to their current state of shine. Not like kids are an automatic turnoff these days, but she still prefers them a good deal past the awkward question stage. Less the birds and the bees as _why is the sky blue_. Shit like that.

   Alice stares back at her, silent, ready to laugh.

   "Did you know he was a math geek?" Willow clambers on top of a nearby rock that stands nearly the height of her shoulder. Faith actually finds herself ready to protest about stubbed toes before she catches herself.

   She settles for the usual save. "Really."

   "And a logic geek." Willow assumes the yoga position. "And a little too interested in young girls for his own good. Though I don't assume that had anything to do with him being a deacon. I mean, he turned down the priesthood --"

   "Figures." Faith snorts, leaning in to inspect the cats. One of these has got to be the Cheshire."Like my ma said. Buncha kiddy diddlers."

   "Well, at that age..." Willow closes her eyes again, in an obvious attempt to forcibly unwind. "I had other things on my mind."

   "Yeah?" Faith prompts. Nothing wrong with being proactive.

   "I'd already worked out some of the puzzles in Alice and the Looking Glass. So it made me go back and look even harder, to see what I missed." A grimace ripples over Willow's face. "Which may have been the source of my neurotic nightmares involving Cordelia as the Queen of Hearts."

   Faith doesn't respond. Last time she saw Cordy hadn't gone so well. Of course the time before that, the other woman had been on the wrong end of her fist.

   "I really do feel better," Willow interjects, eyes still closed. "This was a good idea."

   "Yeah, well..." Faith shrugs. "You're the big nature queen."

   "I never was, though. Always had my nose buried in a book." Willow shifts position, keeping her face toward the sun. "The one time my mom broke down and sent me out of the house, I went to the library. I think I fell asleep in a chair."

   "Not a Girl Scout, huh? You just --" Faith chokes back a Brownie joke. No idea why the sudden attack of the bashful. "So what --"

   Willow doesn't answer. Faith suddenly feels very, very stupid. _What changed? Everything. There was life Before Tara, and After Tara. And then Without Tara, until --_

   "Phew." Willow shakes her head as if to clear it. "Sorry. Getting my shields straight after our standoff du jour."

   "Our uninvited guest the godfather." Faith kicks back on the mushroom, stretching her legs. "So? Wizard, warlock, wanker?"

   "Before I go worrying about him --" Willow uncurls her fingers, hands laid out on her knees, palms up. "The first thing to do is figure out if this thing with my shields is something internal. If it's me, I need to take care of me first."

   "Selfish."

   "If I don't find anything wrong, then I look for some outside source of the problem. Right now, I just need to relax."

   "And ditching your ride for a stroll through the heart of Mugger Command is supposed to help you relax." Faith doesn't fight the need to sound overly skeptical. Some things demand a certain presentation.

   "That reputation is really undeserved." Willow slaps away a mosquito, quickly resuming her lotus. "More of a seventies-eighties thing. I didn't think you were in prison _that_ long."

   "Hardy har." Faith hops to her feet and shoves her hands in her pockets, glancing around the edge of the treeline. "Didn't Kennedy give us a heads up in her last email? Something about vamps in the park?"

   Willow doesn't respond. Faith finds herself unduly irritated.

   "You know, if you're that worried about your grandma, or your cousin, or whoever, finding out about this crap -- you _do_ have a Slayer on your team."

   "Maybe I shouldn't need one." Willow smiles without opening her eyes; the kind that's more for protocol than any real amusement. "At least that's what I used to think. One of the reasons I started learning magick. Real Charles Atlas kinda thing -- _they'll never kick sand in my face again._"

   A dry, humorless chuckle punctuates this particular sentiment. Faith doesn't mention their obvious historical moment, another memory ever present.

   "The real question," Willow continues, "is whether anything needs slaying. Or getting involved in, at all."

   Faith wonders if this is some devil's advocate thing. "How come?"

   "Because not everything is political prisoners. Or David and Goliath. Sometimes, someone just needs to learn a lesson. Before someone else gets hurt." Willow surveys the surrounding landscape with a look of satisfaction. "It still doesn't feel like a park without kids."

   Faith shudders. "Rug rats and gang bangers?"

   "See?" Willow smiles. "Grumpy old man."

   "I am _not_ old." Faith's normally Swiss-cheesey memory decides at that moment to recognize the sudden familiar image Willow brings to mind, namely Lily Tomlin's animated Disneyesque sequence, complete with Snow White dress...

   "Uh, Red?"

   "Huh?"

   "You wanna tone it down a bit?"

   "Why?"

   "'Cause those trees are doin' the macarena."

   "Oh, carp!" Willow quickly gestures with one hand, settling the errant forestry back into the earth. "Well. That was --"

   The witch stutters to an abrupt halt as Faith also likewise becomes aware of the formerly enraged mother of three in the minivan, now like her offspring, transfixed and at a standstill. The woman gazes dumbly back and forth between the trees and the statues, as if expecting them too at any moment to spring to life.

   "Boy kids, that was a great...balloon animal act, huh?" Willow grabs her partner by the hand, offering her brightest smile. Faith suffers herself to be dragged off without a fight.

   "So that's how you unwind," the Slayer remarks. "Discreetly."

   "I could discreetly make you forget." Willow reddens, then looks guilty. "No. I should forget -- no! I need to remember. So I don't forget to _not_ do that --"

   "Chill." Faith plants a quick kiss on the other woman's mouth, pulling away with a grin. "Heh. Chilly Willy."

   She can feel Willow's eyes on her, as she starts to run back to the car. Something about this sun and fresh air crap must be making her goofy.

   Time to get back to civilization.

 

**

 

   Bubbeh's townhouse is a mausoleum in not-so-miniature, if marginally more friendly in decor. Occupying the top three stories of the building's twelve, and comprised of a ridiculous number of rooms, the layout is simple but far from spartan, with the honorable guesty visitors (themselves) installed in a full blown suite. Any more and they'd have had the entire floor.

   It didn't ease Willow's conscience to know that Rafael's modest quarters were longstanding, and entirely by his own request. For her part, Danielle seemed loathe to display any hint of girlish tradition, including the slightest complaint about the lack of creature comforts. Or as the up and coming young gothutante put it, bitching in the lap of luxury was _so not my style._

   "Don't get me wrong." Danielle is perched on the countertop, her heels swinging against the tile in stark contrast to her dour garb and demeanor. "I wish the mini fridge was bigger, but hey. It's my own freaking fridge!"

   "That's because no one wants your bacteria infecting their food." Nat lounges against the opposite counter, inspecting his fingernails. The black sheep heir apparent had shown his face mere moments after Abigail vacated the premises, lending further credence to Willow's embryonic theories regarding family dynamics.

   Danielle remains unruffled. "They can keep paying six bucks a quart at Trader Joe's like everyone else."

   "Ignore her," Nat advises Willow. "She's convinced she's little Martha Stewart on the prairie."

   "Ignore him." Rafael levels a glare at his brother. "Kitchen stewardship is very important."

   "Tell me to get barefoot and pregnant," Danielle bristles, "and I'll tell you to get --"

   "Ready for bed!" Willow interjects, blushing as all eyes fall upon her. "Uh...time. Soon."

   "Sounds good to me," Faith yawns. The Slayer is slouched in a comfy chair on the other side of the room, looking criminally bored.

   Rafe appears vaguely scandalized, drawing a smirk from Nat.

   "Cat got your tongue, little brother?"

   Rafe bristles. "Touch my hair one more time, and I'm telling Bubbeh you're still here."

   Nat hastily withdraws his hand.

   "You know," Willow interjects. "I can see his point. It's kind of infantilizing."

   "Oh, don't worry. You'll always be a man in my eyes." His apparent goal of outraging his brother once more achieved, Nathaniel examines Willow with renewed interest. "He's probably intimidated by your masculinity."

   "Excuse me?" Willow coughs, but Nat has already turned to Faith with a mischievous gleam.

   "Sorry. Didn't mean to imply you don't wear the pants."

   "Stop it!" Rafael snaps, one eye twitching.

   "And don't let Trafe here fill you full of old wive's tales about homo- immorality." Nat grins. "I'm sure he's just jealous."

   "Or curious," Danielle notes, sounding bored.

   "Huh." Faith appears thoughtful. "Well, sometimes we have a guy join us."

   "Really?" Nat perks up, sitting straighter and pushing out his chest.

   "Yeah," the Slayer replies, deceptively non-feral. "She likes to watch while I break out the sharps."

   Willow barely has time to take satisfaction in his reaction before Danielle hops down from the counter, gesturing with silent urgency. The older boy is already making himself scarce when Willow hears her grandmother calling her name, out in the hall.

   "Yes, _bubbeh_?" Willow meets her at the door with a hasty smile, still unsure of her own part in the cover-up.

   "All settled in?" Abigail smiles, taking her hand before the redhead can protest. "If I might have a moment."

   Willow tries not to gulp like a fish. Or like Nat. As they drift away from the light and chattering of the kitchen area the hallway already seems darker, the fabulous surroundings taking on a more sinister edge.

   "Are you hungry?" The matriarch chuckles. "Pardon the silly question. I'm sure you know how it goes. _I hear they've picked a bride for me; I hope she's pretty_..."

   Willow's giggle dissolves a little of the tension. "I'm fine, thanks."

   She's expecting more, but Abigail remains silent as they proceed up an enormous curving set of stairs. Willow finds herself on the lookout for any instability or need to offer assistance, but her grandmother's steps are as brisk as ever.

   Thinking back on it, Sheila's enthusiasm for authenticity had always outstripped her ability in the kitchen, her _matzohs_ sinking like lead in soups that barely nourished the body, let alone the soul. Willow's obscenely wealthy relatives might have lived on the upper East Side, but their cooking was firmly lodged in Delancey Street, showing Willow just what real Jewish cooking was all about. The memories had stayed with her ever since; vivid, rich and filling.

   "Getting along with the kids okay?" Abigail's inquiry abruptly intrudes on her recollections.

   "Oh, yeah. We're totally bonding." Willow fumbles briefly, settling for an intellectual aside. "_Yisimcha elohim k'ephraim v'chi'menasheh_."

   "Brothers who sat together as one." Abigail sighs. "Who loved and respected each other, instead of fighting."

   Willow nods, realizing this may not have been the best allusion. She fumbles again for a distraction, seizing on an earlier thought.

   "At lunch -- why did you ask that about Faith? Because I'm sure it wasn't just my less-than-fashionable black and blue makeup."

   The sharp glance from her grandmother indicates her attempt at subtlety went over like a lead dumpling.

   "Because I know a killer when I see one." Abigail holds up one hand, before Willow can think to interrupt. "I'm _not_ saying she's a bad person. But am I right?"

   Willow meets her gaze. "Am I a bad person?"

   Abigail's composure wavers but a moment.

   "No, _nashemi sheli_."

   _My soul_. Willow returns the hand squeeze, even as she's thinking it's a bit much for a granddaughter the woman hasn't seen in over a decade.

   "I'm just saying...I know the look. My Stanley, bless his soul -- the sweetest, kindest man you could ever hope to meet. Him and all his friends, back in the day." Abigail shakes her head. "Stone cold killers, every one."

   Willow ventures the safest guess. "Were they in the war?"

   "Oh, yes." Abigail snorts. "A gang war."

   Willow's mind fills with questions, but Abigail is still speaking.

   "At lunch. Your...girlfriend...called me Karnak."

   Willow tries a smile. "She doesn't get a lot of pop culture references. I'm sure she didn't mean anything bad --"

   "If I'm Karnak, you're Kolchak."

   Willow's heart sinks. "Come again?"

   Abigail fixes her with that casual, steel-eyed gaze.

   "What exactly is it that you _do_?"

   Willow opens her mouth, neurons firing in all directions as she wishes very much Xander were here. _Stabilize rear deflectors...watch for enemy fighters..._

   How much longer can she keep the balls in the air?

 

   Outside, Nat breathes a sigh of relief. Having managed to escape without Abigail discovering his presence on her nigh-sacred property, his best bet is to get while the getting is less than horrible.

   It wouldn't be kosher to get Ollie tangled up in his problems, but it might be prudent to purchase a fresh set of papers. He'd always wanted to visit the great white North. Though under less stressful circumstances...

   Another hand on his shoulder.

   "_The boss wants to see you._"

   What a surprise.

 

**

 

   She thinks this is the kind of house he -- _Wilkins_ \-- would have had. Never saw his, but she can imagine it. A real castle.

   Or maybe not a mansion. Not his style. More a cheerful Victorian with a porch swing. Maybe the one luxury of a soda fountain, in the kitchen.

   This? Definitely a mansion.

   What creeps her out is the near-pristine condition, from what must be an army of maids. Even with all that energy at her age, Faith can't see one little old lady keeping a place this size dust-free singlehanded. _Tchotchkes_ abound, side by side with what looks to be genuine expensive art. Not like she can tell the difference. The high ceilings and extra-wide doorways complete the impression of having regressed to childhood, or having too many hits from the DRINK ME bottle. Place like this, the people who supposedly owned it just...glided through. Without touching a thing, or being touched by it.

   Her? It's all she can do to keep from looking behind to see if she's leaving footprints.

   Her fingers itch at the sight of an antique sword hanging on the wall. Slayer intuition can sense the weapon is hardly worthy of the term, purely decorative in nature. Still, it makes her think she might feel less out of place with a certain cherry piece of steel in her hot little hands. All too easy to recall the feeling as Buffy reluctantly placed it there, just after she'd woken up from the explosion; again underneath the school, when it looked like B might finally kick it and Faith would be left with no small degree of unresolved issues. She'd put it out of her mind; gone to hacking, slashing and Slaying with no thought to what might follow.

   On some level, she must have assumed she'd get to keep it.

   Bad things, assumptions.

   She wanders back to the bedroom to find Willow propped up in the antique poster bed, nestled into the blankets, surrounded by pillows as she scribbles away. To Faith's eyes, the redhead resembles nothing more than a classic Victorian invalid, except she's the picture of health. Bristling with energy, almost annoyingly so.

   Faith drops and snaps off a quick fifty pushups, followed by an equal number of floor wipers. More to see if Will notices. Which of course she doesn't. Just keeps scribbling, occasionally nibbling the end of her pen like she's about to ask the Slayer for an eight-letter word for torture that starts with a V.

   She hops on the bed, leaning back to get a better look. Might as well not bother disguising it as an idle stretch. Willow's frown of concentration and well-chewed ballpoint attest to her single-minded focus.

   She sneaks a peek at the legal pad, blinking at the mess of squiggles. "What's that?"

   "Absolutely nothing." Willow adds a decorative flourish to the increasingly bizarre construction. "I'm free associating. Trying not to force it...hoping my subconscious is smarter than I am."

   "Doesn't sound like your style."

   "_Try harder_ was always my motto." Willow squints at her doodling. "But I'm not real keen in trying myself into an early grave."

   "Not like your little cousin there. Talk about an overachiever. Boy's wound tighter than you were, back in the day." Faith kicks back, hands behind her head. "Good thing you're around. Could be fun teaching him how to relax."

   "You had to go there?" But Willow's smiling.

   Faith opts to get back on track. "So you're not working hard. You're workin' smart."

   "That's the idea." Willow looks up from the paper, a little too casual. "Tara was the one who taught me, um...how to really meditate. It's like learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."

   Faith just nods, unwilling to interrupt.

   "You may have noticed I'm very verbally oriented --"

   "Flunked the written. Aced the oral."

   "So she helped me get more comfortable with visualization," Willow continues, with a straight woman's long-suffering patience. "So when I'm writing letters to people in my head, I try to see what they look like. My mom's is a printout, or maybe from an old typewriter. Kind of like an office report."

   Faith again refrains from comment.

   "And this one to Buffy is on notebook paper with those blue lines, and this glittery purple ink that's _so_ high school." Willow frowns. "Except I'm having trouble reading it. My handwriting in my head is a lot sloppier."

   Faith can see it herself, actually. Large, looping lines of cursive, girly yet disciplined; each line crammed to overflowing like Kevin Spacey's journals.

   "So is there more of a point to this?"

   "I'm writing."

   "Dangerous stuff," Faith observes, without sarcasm.

   "_Trying_ to write. It's just a letter. Will be." Willow glares at the offending blankness. "I got tired of postcards. _Saw X tourist trap, slayed Y demon, wish you were here._"

   Faith peers at her, matching the frown. "It doesn't have to --"

   "Like those animals at the zoo. How on the surface they're all sleek, and well- fed, and inside the boredom and the claustrophobia and little kids poking them with sticks, instead of sending them over the edge into oh-snapville, it just..." Willow gestures vaguely with one hand. "Sucks the life out of them."

   "Like suburban parents?" Faith tries not to sound skeptical. "Is something gettin' to you that I'm not getting, 'cause I --"

   "Bullriding!"

   "Yuhuh?" Faith blinks.

   "Sorry." Willow looks up again with an apologetic attempt at a smile. "I was trying not to be such a big downer, and thinking -- in my ha-ha, more than half-joking way -- you could make money bullriding."

   "Thought you were asleep while I was watchin' that." Under the blush, Faith's already giving it consideration. "Serious cash. Xan could be one of the clowns --"

   "No." Willow shakes her head. "Trust me on that one."

   Faith shrugs. "Whatever. You're right -- we could really clean up on that. Could be a nice little side venture, with B holdin' them purse strings tighter'n --"

   "If you're about to say something bad about Buffy?" Willow points her pen at Faith with a stern look. "I must warn you that I will need to put my fingers in both ears and sing LA LA LA until you desist."

   Faith returns the grin, but it feels a little soured.

   "So, whaddya say?"

   "To what?" Willow blinks. "About...bullriding? You're serious?"

   "As a heart attack." Faith watches her closely. "Why not?"

   "Apart from the incredibly obvious risk of being seen on TV?" Willow sets pen and pad by her side, indicating her own growing degree of Serious. Faith hopes this won't turn into a lecture.

   She sends out a cautious probe. "That the only reason?"

   "Well, of course I'd worry about you." The redhead gives her knee an affectionate squeeze. "And I'd be worried for the bull."

   Faith smiles despite herself. It feels better this time.

   "But you'd be in the stands? Cheerin' me on?"

   "Absolutely. And if I ever give some boring presentation to some obscenely boring group of programmers, or witches --"

   "I'll be there," Faith sighs, with deliberate drama. "Shakin' my poms."

   "'Cause that's what families do."

   "Sure." She's starting to feel uncomfortable again. "At least you got a real family to drive you crazy."

   Willow doesn't say anything, settling into the pillows with her hand on the Slayer's knee. Faith accepts this as an opportunity to change the subject. Work is always good.

   "So what about Prince Charming?"

   "Who?"

   "Nat," Faith clarifies. "Not so golden boy."

   "What about him?" Willow places the pad in her lap with her free hand, letting the tip of her pen wander like a ouija pointer, seeking some unconscious pattern. "I never met him before. The couple of times we came to visit, I guess he was always packed off somewhere else because he pulled another Goofus. Their idea of real discipline."

   "Can see how well that worked out." Faith's deadpan cracks into a sarcastic smile. "Can't say I took to it myself."

   "Of course," Willow deadpans back. "Model citizen."

   "What I'm saying," Faith continues, with the air of the long-suffering spouse, "is they clamp down, it's counterproductive to the max. First reaction most people have, when you tell 'em they can't do something?" The Slayer nods, certain in her sagacity. "Just do it."

   "And you're not projecting onto the rest of the world?"

   Faith shrugs, fixing her with a thousand-yard stare.

   "Know at least one I'd feel pretty safe."

 

**

 

   "Y'know, everybody likes to crack wise."

   Nat winces at the sound of cracking knuckles. Thank Hashem they're not his.

   Yet.

   "Always runnin' their mouths about us New Yorkers. We think the whole country should act like us. But those LA types?" A pair of shoulders as wide as Abigail's doorways give a mighty shrug. "Don't get me started! So loud and flashy..."

   "Nosenseacommunity," the other chimes in.

   "Exactly. Frickin' carpetbaggers come into our placea business -- our _home_ \-- and think they're gonna keep skimmin' the cream like..." The gravelly voice trails off, with a note of impatience. "Feel free to say somethin' stupid at this juncture."

   Nat manages a shrug of his own. "I love what you've done with the place."

   "We're in an alley." The henchman's confusion is almost painful.

   "He _knows_ we're in an alley." The boss shakes his head, inspecting their human captive like a side of beef ready for the baseball bat.

   Nat risks an attempt at humor. "We couldn't meet in an olive oil factory?"

   "Whattailooklike? Popeye?" A bicep flexes, millimeters away from Nat's quivering nostrils. The henchman snorts in disbelief. "Who the heck any more does olive oil?"

   "You watch it, sonny," the older one warns. "A good olive oil is timeless."

   "This is why I save the jokes for the poker table," Nat sighs. If only he can sound like he isn't whining, or begging. "Can you gentlemen help me or not?"

   "Slow down, cowboy." A claw-tip pokes him in the chest. "You come waltzin' in here with no rep, no credit, still wet behind the ears -- no disrespect --"

   "None taken. Or intended."

   "You're young," the demon continues, with a wet rumble of irritation. "That means no patience. I unnerstand you might feel like you got dropped into some pointless Nip ritual. But this ain't about fifteen layers of polite introductions and arrangin' flowers up your ass. It's about protectin' our interests."

   Nat opens his mouth, then stops.

   "You show up, offerin' something we want? I'm already suspicious, 'cause it's in my nature. And even if it pans out -- the fact that you're willin' to betray a confidence don't exactly work in your favor."

   Nat squares his shoulders. "I can honestly say I've never betrayed anyone who didn't deserve it."

   "Spunky. And funny. My boss likes spunky." A knowing look passes between the demons. "He don't like funny."

   "I'll remember that."

   "Shaddap." The command is given without rancor. "See, I'm just tellin' you how things are. You're what they call a rogue element."

   "A wild card," the henchman interjects.

   "You got it," the elder nods. "An independent operator. And those can cause all kindsa problems."

   "Hopefully I can offer a solution." Nat can feel his palms sweating; fingers itching to adjust his nonexistent tie. "If you'll let me."

   "Soon as you lose the chip, we can put that shoulder to the wheel. Get some work done --"

   "Pardon me!" The new voice is wobbly with drink and age as a frail figure appears at the mouth of the alley, one hand in his pocket. "Don't suppose one of you can spare a fellow a light --"

   "Beat it, grandpa," the henchman snarls, taking a step forward.

   Then the other shouts something in an alien tongue.

   Nat's still trying to parse this when the thunder hits his ears, caving them in. Echoes resound off the walls as the henchman scrambles for cover, the boss's body crashing to the ground like a mountain, gushing flourescence from his wounds. The wrinkled hand that grabs his own shakes him from paralysis, and Nat gives in to instinct, skedaddling with all the speed he can muster.

   "Boy, what kind of _mishegas_ are you into?" Armin's shout is as strong as his grip as he looks behind them, checking for pursuit. Guy's not even out of breath. It's just not fair.

   "Trying -- to cut a deal," he manages. "Enemy -- of my enemy --"

   "Is just waiting for you to drop your guard before he helps himself!"

   "And I thought -- I was cynical --"

   "If that means seen it all? You're darn tootin'!"

   Nat doesn't waste the energy to try for an eyeroll. It seems a higher priority to pray that his expensive sneakers won't come untied.

   He misses the subway until Armin disappears down the entrance. Nat skids to a halt, almost running into a street preacher before backtracking, following his cranky old savior into the bowels of the city.

   "Look at you," Armin sighs, looking around before pocketing the pistol. "You've never even been out of the states, have you?"

   "I..." Nat's flush of unaccustomed exercise is overtaken by a mild shame. "I don't like planes."

   "Oh, then you'd _hate_ Israel." Armin checks his watch, gesturing them forward, toward the turnstile. "But you should still go. At least once."

   Nat considers this, apropos of nothing. "You think I should?"

   "I can't tell you what to do, kid. No one can."

   Nat squashes the annoyance. "I'm not saying, tell me what to do and I'll do it like some mindless puppet. I'm asking your opinion."

   Armin chuckles. "Then yeah. I think you should."

   "Why? Perspective?"

   "Pah! Perspective you want, you should go to Auschwitz."

   "You're serious."

   "The tomb of Elvis has nothing on them. But if you're looking for something else?" Armin smiles, with all the implacable wisdom of his years. "Go to Israel. Trust me."

   "You know what they say about that?"

   "Screw you."

   "Ah, you've heard that one."

 

**

 

   Willow already regrets the earlier outburst. And not just because it spoiled her chances of getting

   (_laid_)

   lucky. Every time she allows her serenity to be disrupted is another victory for the forces of entropy and darkness. Hardly synonymous, but individually problematic; in unison, potentially fatal. Getting riled isn't just an upset tummy and sleeping alone, it's unnecessary suffering over things you're powerless to change. Faith is off patrolling the perimeter, or whatever it is that disgruntled butch types do when thwarted in their quest to...

   _Get lucky?_

   She flops back into the pillows, suppressing a groan. This Zen stuff is harder than it looks. Especially when your life isn't on the line.

   She focuses inward, striving for clarity. Some semblance of tranquility amidst the noise.

   The life forces in close proximity are first to become apparent. Abigail, her vigorous heartbeat befitting her level of activity; Rafael, tossing and turning in his sleep. Danielle, out like a light and dead to the world; Faith on the floor above, murky and moody yet utterly calm, ready for action.

   Willow had opted for conjuring up blueprints rather than go exploring, especially in search of a bathroom. Far from paranoia, she defended this by pointing out her grandmother's alarm system. It was a simple security measure, in keeping with Abigail's interests.

   "You didn't tell her crap."

   "I will if I have to." Willow's quashing of her irritation is becoming decidedly less effective. "Obviously so far, I don't feel I have to. Do you disagree?"

   "Your family, your call." Faith is clearly taken aback by this level of bluntness, but hides the momentary surprise well.

   Willow plunges back into technical details. "So we have a tap on her alarm. I can expand on that, make it more effective --"

   "Without telling her."

   "If I have to!" Willow stops shouting. "Look, this is my job. Our job. If we needed advice on real estate, or the stock market, I'd be asking her all kinds of questions. If her problems were just about money, she wouldn't need our help!"

   "Ordinary doesn't mean stupid." Faith's intransigence is quickly devolving to plain stubborn. "You should know. You used to be --"

   She shuts up, but the damage is done. Willow's hurt expression is more than enough indication. Imminent Lesbian Bed Death, film at eleven.

   So Faith is off patrolling the perimeter. And Willow, in a classic example of intellectual avoidance, is doing her best to reconcile her grandmother's modern security system with the very old school wards underlying the mundane electronics. Inscriptions from the Kabbalah are nothing to trifle with. And just because Rafe is the most likely suspect...

   She falls asleep with her notebook open, the lamp by the bedside still on.

 

   She sits up, heart racing, a lump in her throat. Willow reaches out with her mind on sheer instinct, scanning the premises.

   Nothing.

   She's just beginning to breathe easier.

   Then the glass shatters.

 

**


	4. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (Act 3)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | yeah baby yeah  
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**Current music:** | Testament - First Strike Still Deadly  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (Act 3)** _

>   
> _Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist or [sic] understand. For all one knows that demon is the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's personality._  
>  \- George Orwell, "Why I Write"

 

I wanted more of the actual ceremony here, I really did. But this still feels like it's finally good beyond mere serviceable.

Don't worry. All will become clear as mud with the conclusion in my usual asspulltastic style.

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/98227.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/101714.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/107653.html))

 

 

   Before the first shard hits the floor Faith's already in motion, grabbing and hurling a tacky and-or priceless lamp. Before it hits her target's head she has the decorative sword in one hand, judging the angle as she gets a grip with the other and drives it into the intruder's beefy neck.

   With Slayer strength behind it, the thin metal actually slides almost all the way through before catching on what's probably the guy's spine. Faith decides asking would be pointless, grabs him by one horn and grimly finishes the job, envisioning a Thanksgiving turkey coming apart at the seams. A river of foul smelling blood gushes forth from its neck, befouling the hardwood floor as the twitching body pitches forward onto its knees, collapsing like a deflated balloon.

   She tosses the head aside, scanning the hallway.

   Nothing.

   Then the window explodes.

 

**

 

   Willow knows she's panicking when her first instinct is to teleport directly to Faith. Fortunately, a moment's contemplation of the infinite unpleasant possibilities is enough to dissuade her. Instead she grabs her flashlight from the bedside table, comforted by the aluminum heft.

   Moonlight streams through the thick glass window as she pads over to the door, barely daring to breathe. Confused shouts echo from the hall; Rafael and Danielle, arguing up a storm.

   "You know why! Because of _him_ \--"

   "You know what I'm tired of? You blaming him for everything --"

   "You think this has nothing to do with him? You don't think they're here looking for him, right now?"

   "_Got that right, kid._"

   Willow stands utterly still, one hand on the knob. The new voice takes _gravelly_ to unforeseen depths, with all the superlative excess mucous production that keeps demon slaying so consistently interesting.

   "He's not here." Rafael's voice threatens to crack beneath the edge of boldness. "Don't hurt her --"

   A howl of pain greets Willow as she flings open the door, white-hot fire running down her arms, pooling at her feet. The living flame vanishes as the redhead takes in the sight of Faith, standing atop an enormous demon wearing an incongruously pricey suit. Danielle and Rafael are huddled against the far wall, both of them clutching one another.

   "Motheragod!" Willow can see the demon's left arm is utterly limp, fingers failing even to twitch as Faith manhandles the rest of its body. "How come I hadda draw Slayer duty?"

   "Slayer?" Danielle seems to realize her position, angrily shaking off the contact with her brother.

   "I know," Willow helpfully interjects. "He isn't really dressed like a heavy metal fan, is he?"

   Danielle's eyes narrow as she turns to her cousin, the thing on the floor forgotten. "And weren't you just on fire?"

   "I believe she was."

   Willow groans inside as she turns to face Abigail, imposing as ever despite her ornate cap and nightgown.

   "Willow, dear?" The matriarch pokes the fallen demon in the rump with her cane, heaving a sigh. "I'm about to say that other thing."

   _Unless you say it first._

   Willow nods, and gives up the ghost.

   "We need to talk."

 

**

 

   Watching them interact, Faith realizes she'd got it wrong. Something in her had anticipated Abigail's concern for curtains and carpets would outweigh any protective instinct toward her grandchildren, even the ones still living at home in her apparent good graces. The straight-shooting, no-nonsense vibe is still in full effect. But it's becoming clear that in this family, blood really does run thicker.

   "What are you doing?" Rafael has been quietly sitting, watching them, ever since Willow went off with grandma for the Big Talk. Danielle glances over from the kitchen, a spoonful of yogurt halfway to her lips.

   "Gotta pass the time somehow." Faith smiles and claps the trussed-up demon on the back as she sits down beside him, kicking her heels up on the coffee table. Rafael opens his mouth to protest before Danielle silences him with a gesture.

   "Whaddayouwant?" Up close the demon looks like a wereweasel, with the near-reptilian hide of a rhino. Its beady eyes shift back and forth in their sockets like spectators at a tennis match. "You ain't no cop."

   "Nice tie." Faith pats the fabric. "Real silk, huh?"

   A bumpy tongue lolls out in a leer. "Like your underwear?"

   Faith exposes her teeth as she strokes the tie. "What underwear?"

   "I knew it -- _ack!_"

   "I'm not a cop." Faith looks almost bored, apart from the strain in her biceps as she holds the length of cloth taut against his throat. "But if you don't tell me why you busted in here, you're gonna wish the boys in blue found you first."

   "I don't think he can breathe." Danielle sounds utterly fascinated. "Or talk. Unless he doesn't breathe through his mouth."

   "I can't believe I'm hearing this." Rafael rises from his seat, one hand over his mouth. "Seeing...oh God...damn..."

   "Rafe!" Danielle chides, in faux shock. But the boy is already turning away, tottering to the kitchen to unquietly relieve the contents of his stomach into the sink.

   Danielle turns back to Faith with an air of distaste. "Is this necessary?"

   "You think this is bad?" Faith hasn't taken her eyes from the demon's own, now bulging from its profusely sweating head. The calm in her voice is rapidly being replaced by outright menace. "Cause I don't think you wanna know how much worse I can get."

   "And neither does anyone else!"

   Willow's chirpy interjection comes none too soon for their captor, whose shade of purple is beginning to resemble his tie. Faith sighs and drops him back on the couch, turning to face the redhead and her grandmother, standing in the doorway wearing matching looks of disapproval only varying by degree.

   "Just havin' a little fun." Faith pastes on a smile, swallowing the uneasy feeling. "What's up?"

   "Well, my granddaughter now feels a good deal less inadequate."

   Willow offers a weak grin as her shoulders sag. "I really didn't --"

   "Nonsense. We'll speak no more of it."

   "I can see you're havin' a family thing," the demon wheezes. "I don't wanna interrupt...I'll just let myself out --"

   Abigail's eyes flare as she takes in the hostage on the couch.

   "As for this fellow -- I'm afraid we were mistaken."

   "What do you mean?" Rafael stands in the kitchen doorway with sunken eyes and dampened hair, traces of green around his mouth.

   "They didn't come for Nathaniel." Abigail sounds abruptly ancient.

   "_Bubbeh?_" Rafe's eyes grow wide in confusion, the boy wavering on his feet.

   "They came for you."

 

**

 

   "So." Armin is not quite sprawled out on the seat, a newspaper draped over his face as Nat tries to refrain from rubbernecking. "You got a plan?"

   "I did." Nat wonders if the muscular black guy across from them is sizing him up for a mugging, or to ask him on a date. "Things changed."

   "And what happened?" Armin asks, like he knows the answer.

   "I needed a new plan."

   The newspaper puffs briefly upward with a sigh. "Let's keep this simple. What could you possibly have to offer those _paisanos_ that they wouldn't just fillet you and take it if they had half a mind?"

   "I didn't go in _completely_ blind and trusting." Nat scales back his rising temper. "Sorry."

   "And you knew going in they were _shedim?_"

   Nat's brow crinkles. "Foreign gods?"

   "Demons."

   The muscleboy rises from his seat. Nat's heart becomes a spastic greyhound until he realizes the man is walking away, as quickly as possible given the speed of the swaying subway car, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure the two crazy Jews aren't about to choose him for a human sacrifice.

   "And how long have you known?"

   "This isn't about me, kid."

   Nat scowls. "I wish you'd quit calling me that."

   "When you quit acting like one."

   "I don't mean for the obvious reason. It makes you sound like you're trying to be Humphrey Bogart."

   "You have no idea." Armin sits up, dislodging the newspaper and glancing around. "Our stop's coming up."

   Nat remains silent, sullen. Armin doesn't blink.

   "You gonna help me out or what?"

   Nat looks at him, confused. "I thought you were helping me."

   Armin smirks. "Help me help you."

   Nat looks away again. Armin grunts, fishing in his pocket. For a split second Nat thinks he's pulling out the pistol, but it's just a subway pass.

   "You owe me a new Fun Card."

   "I..." Nat tries to marshal his thoughts. "I don't have any cash on me. I was going to see a friend --"

   "Unless you tell me why you're trying to set every unholy bastard in this city at each other's throats."

   Nat swallows, feeling his ears pop.

   "I'm trying to save my brother."

   Armin's incomprehensible grunt is a clear demand for more detail.

   "Look -- I was Judah, he was Joseph. Okay?" Nat bows his head and shuts his eyes.

   "Least it wasn't Cain and Abel," Armin says, with no little sarcasm.

   "Not yet." Nat feels the bubble of misery well up inside. "I was jealous, I was stupid and desperate and I tried to sell him into slavery for twenty pieces of silver. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

   "Far from it." Armin sounds less grumpy. Almost compassionate, until his next words. "About what I expected, though."

   "I tried to make up for it. I put wards on the house -- gave them a red herring..." Nat clutches the edge of his seat, not daring to open his eyes. The sting of tears threaten as the car sways back and forth, rocketing down the tracks with a clicking rumble. "I gave them _someone else!_ He was supposed to be safe --"

   "Nobody's safe." Armin sighs again, rising as they approach the stop. An iron hand encircles Nat's forearm, compelling him to do likewise. "Who's the new target?"

   Nat blinks. He'd almost forgotten her name...

   "Willow."

 

**

 

   "I can't believe it."

   "You said that already." Danielle's fingers hover over the pincushion, selecting her weapon.

   "I can't! I can't believe he'd do such a thing. My own brother --"

   "You said that too." Danielle isn't even looking at Rafe any more, sitting in the picture window, staring out at the street below. Willow observes them from the corner, lost in thought and a beanbag chair.

   "I always knew he was a _schnorrer_." Rafael runs both hands through increasingly disheveled curls, the resulting spikes rendering him a young, more than half-mad Einstein. "A lecher, for sure. But selling me out? Literally! I can't --"

   "Be a believer," Faith cuts in. "Turn your back on family? They'll put the knife in it every time."

   Willow gives her a reproachful look, but remains silent.

   "With your bubbeh's bankroll, he probably didn't have to go far." Faith's cynicism remains clear. "Any gangster worth his salt would jump at the chance. Fat, easy ransom."

   "So there are demons in the Mafia." Danielle's tongue emerges from between her teeth as she pokes at her doll with a pin. "I can't decide if that's cool or disturbing."

   "I usually go for disturbing," Willow chimes in.

   "And Grandma says you guys are gonna handle it?"

   Faith shrugs. "Another working vacation?"

   "That's about the size of it." Willow looks over at her girlfriend. "Sorry, honey."

   "And she didn't go completely cloud cuckoo when you dropped this whole _megillah_ on her?" Danielle shakes her head. "There's where _my_ belief starts to break down."

   Willow manages a weak smile. "It wasn't that complicated."

 

**

 

   _"Magic is real?"_

   "Yes."

   "_Shedim_ are real?"

   "Yes."

   "Oy."

   "Pretty much what I said."

   "I'm glad we had this talk."

 

**

 

   "Figures she wants to move up the ceremony." Danielle's lower lip takes on a familiar stubborn cast. "I'm still not wearing that damn dress."

   "Please!" Rafe's ranting devolves to a pathetic plea as he sinks onto the couch, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "Like I don't have enough problems? Is it asking so much for you to show the tiniest _tzniut_, on this one day --"

   "Yes." Danielle glares at him with settled finality, giving the doll a particularly vicious jab.

   Willow sighs, wincing as she realizes how much she sounds like her mother. "I just hope I don't end up wishing for blood larvae and burlap."

   Faith smirks. "I'd pay to see that."

 

**

 

   She remembers the last time she wore one of these things. That modest little pink number, all girlish and soft. The one that after all this time, she still can't bring herself to hate.

   This is the first one to make her forget all about it.

   Faith can't remember the brand, and she doesn't care one bit. Since they sent their hostage packing back to his bosses the morning had turned into a whirlwind of activity, most of it eaten up by hastily arranged fittings. Rafe had about had another stroke when Faith insisted on all red, but Abigail stood firm and supported her. Now barely six hours later, she's staring at at herself in the mirror. It's almost like two separate halves: A tight, almost gymnastic top, falling off one shoulder; the bottom a slinky, floor-sweeping number, tied at the waist with a long sash. Freedom of movement to the max.

   Only thing that seems off is her hair. Just never seems right not to let it fly free.

   Danielle's voice filters in from the hall. "You're not supposed to see her before the ceremony."

   "Don't even try it." Willow's warning is followed by a knock at the door. "Are you decent?"

   "Once in a while." The snark is automatic, but Faith continues to stare into the mirror as the door swings open.

   A low whistle greets her from behind. "Oh, my."

   Faith's sudden gratitude for the lowered lighting is overcome by the sight of them standing beside one another. From the look in her eye, Willow very much approves.

   "Kinda what I was thinkin'." Her hand drifts down to the left leg, checking the almost invisible slit. Reaching for a garter holster wouldn't exactly be discreet, but if things go that far they'll have more to worry about. "Not that I'd kick you outta bed for eating crackers."

   Willow gazes at their reflection, sounding distracted to the point of enraptured. "Backup stakes?"

   "Lacquered and sharpened." Faith pats the bun in her hair. "Long as I don't have to say any words, we're golden."

   "This is like my fluke moment all over again. With even better dresses." Willow's arm drifts lower, fingers twining with the Slayer's just above her hip. "Except one of us should have a tux."

   "Thought the idea was to keep your cousin alive," Faith reminds her.

   Willow turns and leans into her. "Is that a note of wry toast?"

   "Groan."

   "Heh." Willow's gaze drifts lower. "You know, you're probably the first Slayer to wear steel-toed Pradas."

   "Gotta be me, Red."

   "Could you be anyone else?" Willow chucks her under the chin, just gentle enough not to make Faith feel like nipping at her fingers. "Come on. It's show time."

   Faith follows her out, with one last look in the mirror. Whatever else goes wrong -- and it always does -- she is _not_ letting this dress go without a fight. Even if the thought of being seen in it by anyone else is suddenly the scariest thing she's ever had to face.

   _Show time._

 

**

 

   "You're sure this is the place?" Armin surveys the refuse-riddled hallway with a skeptical eye. A scowl lights up his lips at the graffiti scrawled on the crumbling walls. "Thought you said this guy was a hustler like you."

   "That's like saying broccoli is like a carrot because they're both vegetables." Nat sidesteps a pile of excrement, staying well away from the sagging wallpaper. "He's got more than one place."

   "Impressive." Armin doesn't sound it. "Still, inflation and all."

   "Well, he did. I don't know if he still does." Nat halts, with the satisfied look of one whose vague memory has been vindicated. "Last door on the left."

   "Fitting." Armin's hand returns to his pocket, failing to reemerge. "You first."

   Nat doesn't bother contesting it. The door yields to his ungentle shove, bringing a wince from both men at the horrendous squeal.

   Armin's failure to be impressed continues unabated. "Your guy lives in a closet?"

   "Sublets." Nat takes two steps forward and kneels. The plate covering the air duct refuses to come all the way loose, but his hands are small enough to fit inside, finding the hidden latch with ease.

   The wall slides aside in total silence, followed by Armin's eyebrows going up.

   "Nice." The older man's assessment is only moderately begrudged. "Could have used more of those back in the day."

   Nat doesn't even hear, his pulse thundering in his ears as he stares at the wreckage of the room beyond. Shabby as Ollie's domestic skills could charitably be described, his flawless sense of organization bordered on an obsessive compulsion; the few times Nat had set foot in any of his safehouses had been like watching Bob Geldof rearranging piles of broken glass, his host taking great pains to point out the system at work underneath the madness. _A pile for everything, and everything in its pile._ Now it's all one great big pile.

   Armin frowns. "You hear that?"

   "Obviously not -- hold on." Nat cocks his head, trying to locate or at least recognize the faint song. Some Bob Marley tune, how cliche could you get --

   Armin kneels and pulls a battered cellphone from the trash pile, holding it out to Nat. "You wanna take this?"

   "Not in the least." Nat steels himself, hitting TALK hard enough to bruise his finger. "Hello?"

   "_Just the man I was looking for._" The voice is so cultured it drips buttermilk, as his aunt would say.

   "Is he all right?" Nat already wants to kick himself, with both feet. As if he has any leverage to ask questions...

   "_If you mean young Oliver? I have no idea._" His erstwhile _patron_ sounds more amused than annoyed. "_I only sent someone round to inquire after you. I can't imagine why he would have --_"

   "Gotten the hell out of Dodge," Nat finishes. "Like you thought I would if I couldn't deliver."

   "_And are you prepared to do so?_" An oily chill enters the voice. "_If not what you promised -- then at least yourself?_"

   Nat closes his eyes.

   No more running?

   Seems like a good thing.

   "I'm ready."

   "_Then make haste._"

   As if on cue, two hulking figures emerge from the shadows, blocking their exit. Armin slowly removes the empty hand from his jacket, his flared nostrils the only sign of emotion as one of the patron's flunkies removes and pockets the pistol.

   "_Forgive my little insurance policy,_" the cellphone chuckles. "_But your brother's big day has been rescheduled. There isn't much time._"

   Nat ignores Armin's evil eye as they turn to leave.

   "_And we're _all_ going to be there._"

 

**

 

   "So far so good."

   Willow shoots Faith an aggrieved look. "Tempting fate again, are we?"

   Faith shrugs. "So far, not so bad?"

   "So far, we've been a captive audience." The pale, plastic smile pasted onto Willow's face is showing signs of strain. While Faith doesn't know precisely what will happen when the dam breaks, she is distinctly uneager to find out.

   For her, it had been the ceremony. For Willow? The true torture would be the party.

   "Company." Faith plucks her sleeve, giving a nod to the new arrivals. "Tell me you're not surprised?"

   Willow looks over at the entrance, where Nat and Armin are flanked by a pair of linebackers in matching suits. She does a quick scan of the goombahs, finding mystical auras more or less in line with the average human. In other words, near zero.

   "I got the big one," Faith declares, with no little satisfaction.

   "Wait." As she watches, the two toughs fall back to either side of the doorway, each one keeping an eye on their respective ward.

   "Looks like someone doesn't want them scampering off." The Slayer looks back up the aisle to the main room, where Rafe is surrounded by a flock of cheering relatives. "Think we can do this quiet like?"

   "Would make it harder," Willow admits. "Thought that wasn't your style?"

   "I got lots of different styles." Faith nods at the goombahs. "These guys? Straight outta Winter Hill."

   "Winners will what?"

   "It means relax." Faith flashes a grin, cocky as ever. "I got the big one."

   Willow sighs, waiting patiently until the Slayer has lured her man away. The remaining goombah gives her a fish eye as she approaches, which turns into an appreciative leer.

   "Well hello, little lady." So predictable, the way he stands up straighter than ever, puffing out his chest like a rooster. "What can I do for you?"

   "Actually, it's for yourself." Willow doesn't smile. "You can leave."

   "Right." To his credit, the guy doesn't burst out laughing. Still, the quiet snort speaks to his complete lack of taking her seriously. "You some kinda Slayer too."

   "I could _so_ be one if I wanted." Willow glares at him before remembering to remain calm. It works better that way. "Besides, you'd be safer with her."

   "Why?" The goombah follows her gaze over to Faith, emerging from the bushes and dusting her hands. "She your girlfriend or somethin'?"

   "Good point." Willow acknowledges. "Forgot about that."

   Faith nods as she passes by. "Doin' all right?"

   "Got it covered." Willow returns her attention to the henchman, sighing as she waits for Faith to exit the room. "Hello?"

   "Huh? Right." The guy looks back with a grin, rubbing his beefy hands together fast enough to spark a flame. "Girlfriends."

   "See, if you mess with me, Faith will just beat you up." Willow considers. "Or maybe just kill you. She's not big on the torture these days."

   "Torture?" The goon sounds amazed at the turn in conversation. "Like you are?"

   Willow just looks at him.

   The man shivers. Much like you'd expect from someone who just felt a twinge of not-quite-pain zing down their spine all the way to their groin, ending in a tiny tug deep in their scrotum. Nothing major or earth-shattering, but enough to convince a fellow he could have just suffered an instant vasectomy. Or had his package crushed into jelly.

   Willow's gaze is without hostility. Pure, unwavering calm.

   "She knows I can take care of myself."

   "Sor--" The guy coughs, dancing back and forth. "I'll be goin' now."

   Willow watches him gingerly limping away with fast, tiny steps. No doubt to the nearest bathroom for a safety inspection.

   "Ouch." Faith's sympathy shines through despite her amusement.

   Willow looks over to see the Slayer framed in the doorway, the light from the room behind not quite rendering her dress transparent. "I told you I had it covered."

   "What can I say?" Faith's grin takes on the crooked cast of overt seduction. "I like watchin' you work."

 

**

 

   Not watching the door they came in, Nat doesn't understand why Armin is smiling. Besides, he's too busy navigating the most treacherous gauntlet of all.

   "You have that sore spot still?" Aunt Ellen's suspicious stare zeroes in on his face. "Are you doing cocaine?"

   Nat can feel himself breaking into an abashed, sweaty flush.

   "No, Auntie. I'm still picking my nose."

   "Oy!" Ellen's hands flutter in horror, taking flight like frightened birds. "Better you should do the cocaine! You might have the energy to visit once in a while. Or call, even!"

   "I'll...get right on that, Auntie." Nat spies a familiar face, quickly making his escape. "Excuse me."

   Ellen watches him leave with a cluck of disapproval before turning her sour attentions on an unrepentant Armin. "Still corrupting young boys?"

   Armin's placid calm turns to a pleasant smile. "Still getting them killed?"

   "Faith!" Nat's smile is a hundred and ten percent genuine, as are his next words. "It's good to see you."

   "Heard you put the word out on your little bro." Faith doesn't mince words. "Not cool."

   Nat stands up straighter, every nerve on alert. Is this a test?

   "You know the old saying. Owe someone a million dollars, you're screwed." Nat makes a seesaw motion with one hand. "Owe them a trillion --"

   "They're screwed," Faith finishes.

   "I've been making good progress." Nat watches the cluster of aunts drawn toward Rafael, rotating around him like a solar system. "But at this point, I think it's safe to say I'm still screwed."

   "Never too late."

   Faith seems to realize the wrongness of that statement. Still, Nat has to admire how it doesn't lessen her conviction.

   "Do you believe in a hierarchy of sin?"

   Faith squints at him, suspiciously resembling his Aunt Ellen. "Like a ladder?"

   "Exactly," Nat confirms. "Some say it doesn't matter what sin you commit. That any wrong act is as bad as any other."

   "I'd say they're full of it." Faith watches him closely, as if waiting to strike.

   "They are." Nat meets her gaze. "I learned that when I met you."

 

**

 

   "Some party, huh?"

   "I'm sensing no small amount of sarcasm here." Willow peers at Danielle over her drink. The two of them are seated at the periphery, observing the rest of the room from the best outside vantage.

   "Is that another one of your superpowers?" Danielle stares into her glass, twirling the little pink umbrella. "Captain. I'm sensing he's full of --"

   "It's a useful skill for anyone." Willow takes a quick sip, trying not to gag on the overwhelming fruit flavor. "Growing up on a Hellmouth? Makes it essential."

   "Whatever." The little enthusiasm seems to depart as Danielle slumps in her chair, directing a morose stare at the growing number of revelers flinging themselves headlong onto the dance floor. "Thanks a lot."

   "Assuming this is more sarcasm?" Willow grabs a club soda, emptying half the bottle into her drink. "You might want to spell it out for me. Lately I've been feeling not so smart."

   "You?" Danielle scoffs, disbelief writ large on her otherwise angelic face. "Besides boy genius over there -- you're the one they always hold up as the shining hope we all aspire to."

   "Until they learn I'm something they don't even have a word for." Willow tries a cautious sip of the dilute solution. "Then it's Katie bar the door. Or Rachel."

   Danielle looks back at her with renewed interest, considering.

   "You want to go make out?"

   Willow chokes on her drink. "Excuse me?"

   "Geez, don't have a space cow." Danielle looks away, sounding more than a little irritated. "It was just a suggestion."

   Willow looks back at the dance floor, where Faith and Nat are engaged in a jitterbug. "How old are you?"

   "Seventeen." The grumpiness remains. "It's not like I'm a virgin --"

   "Tee emm eye!" Willow manages not to drop her glass, waving weakly as Faith catches her eye. "And the whole cousin thing? Gotta say that leaves me a little cold."

   "God, where's your sense of adventure?" The waves of negativity have retreated back to standard teen angst. "Is _everyone_ in this family a complete killjoy?"

   "So your idea of fun is to piss off a jealous girlfriend who can bench press a truck?" Willow raises her glass. "It's your funeral."

   Danielle shrugs, looking more confident than she sounds. "I won't tell if you don't."

   "Not the way to build trust in a relationship." Willow smiles and pats the girl's hand. "Sorry. You'll have to find your illicit pleasures elsewhere."

   "What's that, dear?" Abigail materializes only slightly less than literally, looking hearty and cheerfully fortified on her near-empty wineglass. Willow coughs.

   "Uh, I was just telling Danielle -- when I first saw her, I thought she was a Hassid?"

  "With a little change," Abigail beams. "You _so_ could be --"

   "Bubbeh, the day I wear a _sheitel_ is the day I join Kappa Beta Moo." But Danielle's annoyance is tinged with near-involuntary affection.

   "Willow sweetie, hit the buffet already, you must be starving. Danielle, I want you to seriously consider --"

   Willow takes the hint and leaves them to it, sending an apologetic look back when Danielle shoots her a glare of betrayal. Faith and Nat have apparently gotten past their serious talk and are likewise raiding the table, piling their plates high in an apparent contest.

   "You finding everything okay?" Willow looks down at the Slayer's plate. "Heh. Looks like."

   "You're the one that said I was still growing." Faith grabs a carving knife and starts hacking away at the brisket with a gleam in her eye. "God, this thing is half fat!"

   "Ain't it great?" Armin thrusts his plate into the circle of people clustered around the table. "Save some for the old folks, would ya? There's a peach --"

   "That's cheating!" Nat points at his plate, waring the greivous look of the righteously wounded. "Where's the bagels? The latkes, the dumplings --"

   Armin grins, exposing a double row of perfect teeth.

   Willow takes the opportunity to snuggle in a little closer, enjoying the extra Faith-contact allowed by their slinky dresses. It's at that moment that the confluence of factors is just right or wrong, and a lull in the conversation combines with a very loud, inappropriate comment.

   "Oy! The _geyler_ is shtupping a _shikse_?"

   Nervous titters and coughs ensue before the music swings awkwardly back into motion.

   "I don't know." Willow's cheeks are a trifle warm, but she meets the gaze of the speaker -- a woman of Abigail's age, with none of the charm or fashion sense -- with her chin held high. "Is it technically _shtupping_ if I don't have a _schvanz_?"

   "Well." The icy reply leaves no doubt in Willow's mind of the direction this is going. "It's nice to know Sheila's liberal arts degree paid off."

   "Willow, this is Ellen." Armin doesn't even glance at the other woman. "Somehow, the two of you are related."

   "Imagine that?" Willow offers a disarming smile. "Anyway, I don't like labels. I mean, geez, I voted for Schwarzenegger."

   This has precisely the predicted and intended effect. Ellen's jaw loosens on its hinge, swinging, as the woman stares at her aghast.

   "Why on earth?"

   "I like his movies." Willow manages to keep a straight face despite Faith's expression. "*Predator* is a surprisingly well constructed example of the hero's journey --"

   Ellen's shock has become outrage. "That's no reason to vote for someone!"

   Willow casually springs her trap. "It was good enough to put Reagan in the White House."

   "Careful, honey," Armin growls. "I voted twice for Reagan and I'm not ashamed one bit. A man of integrity that was, who had the guts to admit when he was wrong --"

   "By abandoning everything he supposedly stood for?" Ellen appears on the verge of passing out. "These days, you'd call him a flipper flopper --"

   "Excuse me!" Abigail's harsh interjection quells the burgeoning debate, and the matriarch glares around the circle at everyone in turn. "I think that's more than enough politics for today, don't you?"

   "No argument from me," Armin chuckles. "Spoil the boy's big day? I never!"

   Faith pulls Willow away from the table while balancing a full plate with her free hand. "You really voted for the Governator?"

   Willow adopts a prim demeanor. "Don't ask, don't tell."

   Armin chuckles as he falls in line behind them.

   "I was really gonna say something." Faith's hand lingers at her waist. "Or, you know -- pop her one."

   "Your discretion is appreciated." Willow keeps a grip on the Slayer's wrist, a silent warning to stay at waist level while they make their way to the back table. "Anyway, you know the drill. If I'm not the dutiful daughter, I'm Lilith in disguise."

   "Better not let the boy hear you say that name." Armin briefly mulls this over as he seats himself beside them. "Either one."

   Faith sweeps her gaze over the scruffy little senior. "Still carryin'?"

   "Almost always." Armin appears unsurprised at her percipience. "You expecting trouble?"

   "Nothin' we can't handle." Faith feels compelled to elaborate. "Her and me, that is."

   "That so?" Already Armin has made a sizable dent in his plate, scarfing its contents neat and quick. "Voice of experience?"

   "How about you tell me what you got?" Faith narrows her eyes, shrewdly assessing him. "You in the Mafia too? Like those goons we sent packing?"

   "Pah!" Armin pauses to dab away grease, almost dainty in his precision. "Today's Jewish Mafia, so called? More Israeli and Russians into ecstasy and heroin. Dutch Schultz would have eaten them for breakfast!"

   Willow glances around, finding the three of them are being thoroughly ignored. For her part, Faith appears eager to continue her semi-subtle interrogation.

   "So what's your story?"

   "Ah, nothing special. Wouldn't want to bore you." Armin wipes his hands, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "You know, you remind me of this sweet doll I knew when I was running numbers."

   "Yeah?" Faith's interest is obvious.

   "She knifed me and took my roll." Armin sips his water, smiling in recollection. "What a woman! This tall, stacked _schvartze_ from Harlem. Unbelievable, I tell you..."

   "Runner, huh?" Faith adopts a calculating expression. "How early you start?"

   "Oh, I must have been...twelve, maybe?" Armin shrugs. "Up at five, out on the street. We had to eat, ya know?"

   "Been there, done that." The Slayer raises her glass with a knowing look. "Here's to better days."

   Willow silently joins the toast with her lemonade. Glancing around the room, she finds the festivities once more in full swing. The spacious hall is packed to the rafters with friends and family; Rafael sits at the head of the main table, suit pockets stuffed to overflowing with discreet envelopes courtesy of the wide and varied avuncular crowd, whose generosity he had apparently been unable to refuse.

   Her roving eye falls upon another familiar face. Nat stands apart from the crowd, staring into his wineglass.

   His face is pale as death.

 

**

 

   For all his vaunted cool, the oldest of the clan's current generation finds himself cursed _in perpetuitum_ with two left feet. Nat's been watching the dancers, content to observe, ever since his cousin dragged her girlfriend from his side. He wonders if Rafe will ever want a girlfriend.

   It would be nice if he lived that long.

   At the table, Rafe is flushed red, but not from wine. At least not yet.

   "One glass! It's watered even --"

   "Don't push him, Elvin." Abigail stands stern, overseeing the proceedings with an iron hand.

   "What pushing? One glass, for the proudest day --"

   At least he's over the old resentments, the jealousy of never being the favored son. The halcyon days of innocence gone, when his biggest worry was having enough baggies to smuggle food away from the buffet table. If he had half a chance of surviving past tonight, he could have made off with an epic haul..

   "_Hello, my boy._"

   Nat stops the outcry before it can pass his lips, feverishly aware of the lack of reaction throughout the hall. This voice is for his ears alone.

   He looks down into his wineglass.

   "_I'm not surprised you dealt with the family men._" His _patron's_ voice is smooth and suave, matching the exquisitely mustachioed face reflected up at him from the gleaming surface of his equally exquisite Cabernet Sauvignon. Nat quickly glances toward the door, finding it unguarded.

   "_No matter._" A wave of the hand dismisses this concern. "_I never did share well with others. But you..._"

   Nat's hand trembles, distorting the handsome features.

   "_Can you honestly say you'd rather deal with those thugs...than a gentleman like myself?_"

   The wine sloshes in his glass. Undulating neon flickers, as the image shimmers and transforms...

   "_Listen, you little schmendrick._" The new voice is a lion's growl, matching the image of an grizzled predator; the same face Nat saw in the alley, grown grey and ancient. "_I've been sweating, and bleeding, and spilling blood for this family before your amphibian ancestors even thought about crawling out of the gene pool. You screw with it in any way, you're gonna wish they stayed there --_"

   The image vanishes before Nat finds out his grip can break the glass.

   "_I realize you're faced with some hard alternatives. But you have only yourself to blame._" The godfather is no longer smiling.

   "_Are you ready to honor your agreement?_"

   Nat shuts his eyes.

   _If not now, when?_

 

**

 

   "Gonna grab a smoke." Faith pushes her chair back and stands, nodding to Armin. "Keep an eye on Princess for me?"

   "My pleasure." Armin's eyes flicker only briefly to the Slayer's retreating hindquarters before returning to Willow. Another sign, she thinks, of his monumental control. "Look, kid. I didn't want to spook your girl, but --"

   "Kid?" Willow echoes. The split second of annoyance must be a little too obvious. Or he's just more perceptive than most.

   "Willow. I hate to ruin a nice day like this, but you --"

   (_FUCKING STUPID_)

   Willow clutches her skull, blindly reaching out at lightning speed. The Slayer's thoughts are a jumble of combat and overwhelming self-recrimination, and she's just starting to get a handle on them; Armin's voice of concern buzzing in the background...

   An explosion cuts him off.

   Willow's first reaction is to inhale, giving herself an unhealthy double lungful of the acrid smoke now thickening the air. Retching beyond control, tears weeping from her eyes, she can barely make out the panicked cries all around; people running, slipping, falling...

   "Distraction!" Armin yells, rising from his chair. "Keep your head down --"

   "_Willow!_"

   The new yet familiar scream interrupts her concentration. Danielle is barely visible through the smoke, in the clutches of yet another well-dressed thug. Willow can't actually see the gun in his hand, held to her cousin's head, but his posture is unmistakeable. She can feel Armin behind her, tensed, coiled to spring.

   "Don't move a muscle, witch!" The hulking heavy is sweating profusely through his pricey fabric. Probably knows how dangerous she can be. If the whole 'witch' thing wasn't enough of a clue...

   "I'm not moving." Willow doesn't hold up her hands. "Just talking."

   "Don't do that either," the heavy snarls. As the smoke clears, Willow can make out a fair number of similarly attired and musclebound men, each holding their own hostage.

   Willow holds up her hands, very slowly. "What do you want?"

   "They want you."

   Willow goes rigid as Nat slips the collar around her neck.

   The instinctive flash of power expands inside her, becoming a universe before rebounding, crumpling her to the floor.

   The last thing she hears are the thugs' screams of outrage. Something about double crosses...

   _Faith!_

 

**


	5. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (conclusion)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | decisive  
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**Current music:** | Remo Williams - The Adventure Begins  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x05: "On A Night Like This" (conclusion)** _

> _"Dawn's in trouble. Must be Tuesday."_

 

Happiest of holidays to you all.

SHARE AND ENJOY.

 

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/98227.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/101714.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/107653.html))  
([Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/109382.html))

 

 

> _Don't it always seem to be  
> that you don't know what you got til it's gone_

 

   Faith grinds her cigarette into a sensitive snout, ducks a punch from the side. All contact with Willow isn't just severed, it's _gone_, this goddamn dress will be the death of her and Will might already be dead

   (_focus_)

   A gun being cocked; the crunch of nasal cartilage under her knuckles.

   She's out of stakes, these guys don't go poof, and nobody runs faster than a bullet. Not even a Slayer.

   Time for a defensive retreat. Strictly temporary.

   Because if Willow is really as gone as she feels?

   There _will_ be hell to pay.

 

**

 

   The last time she felt like this, she was little more than a dead witch walking, if you'll pardon the pun. At the time, she'd been in no mood for jokes. Going from homicidal to suicidal wasn't the worst, nor the grief: It was the emptiness that filled the moments between, so dissociated from herself and the world around her that she might as well have been dead.

   This is something else.

   Right now Willow would be terrified, if she weren't perfectly aware of what was going on. A magickal feedback loop is an elegant but simple thing, easily recognized by anyone having even a passing familiarity with the arts. A set of handcuffs that grip tighter the more you struggle, or a sound filter all the more effective the louder you try to scream...

   "Don't fight it." Nat's eyes are wet as he kneels before Willow, searching her face for comprehension. "You'll only hurt yourself."

   _I'm good at that,_ she says. Or tries to, until her jaw aches from the effort, her sight dimming to a dull fog.

   "I'll get you out of this." Nat's voice trembles, betraying his lack of confidence. "If I can. I swear it..."

   "But hadn't you heard?" A new yet familiar voice intrudes, oily and slick. "_Swear not at all, neither by heaven for it is God's throne, nor by the earth for it is His footstool, neither by Jerusalem_ \--"

   "For it is the city of the great king," Nat concludes. The shadow of his presence recedes from Willow's awareness as he stands up, knees wobbly even to her dulled senses. "How are you, sir?"

   "And now with the titles," the voice sighs. "It's a little late for that."

   Through the muffling haze, Willow can make out faint sniffles and sobs. The reflexive surge of power leaves her wracked with agony, contracting her universe once more to a single point of pain. She can very much appreciate the artistry, on an abstract level; as though every individual molecule of her being were having the world's worst charley horse.

   With infinite care, and deliberate lack of effort, she begins the process of deconstruction.

   "Gentlemen." This ambiguous address turns out to be an order, as her body is lifted into the air. "Over here if you would, and -- yes, let's get this dress off." The speaker sounds eminently practical rather than lascivious. "It would be a shame to waste such an exquisite item of apparel, don't you think?"

   "You're the boss, boss."

   Willow finds herself deposited on cold stone, fighting the panic of increasing suspicions. In termms of badness, the idea of being naked in front of her entire extended family and friends is right up there with being ritually sacrificed, but given a choice she'll vote for the option that leaves her only _wishing_ for death.

   "Really!" Abigail snaps, from somewhere out of the fog. "This is intolerable --"

   "Madam," comes the clipped command. "I have no time for interruptions. If you interfere with these proceedings, you will join her, and you will die. Is that clear?"

   Armin stiffens, not quite relaxing under the watchful eyes of the two strapping specimens to either side of him. Willow can see the tension lurking, his body a coiled spring held only in check by knowledge of the consequences. Those same consequences crawl over her skin in concrete form, a google of tiny, razor-sharp claws shredding her at the subcellular level.

   _It's just pain._ That was Tara, helping her through a migraine back when they were the product of homework, eyestrain and too much chocolate. _Pain only hurts. That's all it can do._

   _Sing it, sister._ Faith glares down at her, still wearing the stunning red dress, now with an incongruous pair of Doc Martens that Willow knows perfectly well the Slayer doesn't own and wouldn't be caught dead in. Too trendy.

   _Bet your ass I'm a hallucination,_ dream-Faith continues. _You and me -- we don't have enough memories. Not yet._ A sad, knowing smile. _Not real ones._

   _Real enough,_ Willow thinks. Until the pain becomes too great, and so much for thinking. Back to doing. Or undoing, as the case may be.

   Don't think about being sacrificed. Or what an obviously powerful mage might hope to achieve by it.

   If the pain, and the prison, grow stronger to match whatever fight she can put up -- then the only way out is through passive resistance.

   _Be like water._

   And try not to freeze up.

 

**

 

   Faith swears between her teeth, observing the building from a nearby roof. Dealing with her pursuers had been a breeze compared to climbing a fire escape without tearing the dress, which is showing slight rust stains. But the situation below is already too hot to handle. As in cops. As in vast numbers. Like someone drove up a clown car and started unloading.

   _Thanks a lot, guys._ The steel railing groans under her fingers, her thinning patience screaming for

   (_vengeance_)

   action.

   "Keep those damn rubberneckers back!" The burly, red-faced officer's bulging veins are visible even at this distance. "We got hostages!"

   _Hostage again, Red?_ Faith can't resist the sardonic internal quip. _Talk about a blast from the past._

   _Jokes later._ Willow's imaginary eyes stare her down, unflinching emerald. _Rescue now?_

   Nearly gnawing on her nails. Place is swarming with ESU, Emergency Services Unit. Paramedics on SWAT steroids. Might be sewer access, but she'll have to ditch the dress --

   Unless...

 

   "Officer, oh my God! My family's in there --"

   "Hold it, lady! This area's off limits --"

   "Please, I don't want to be arrested but you have to help them, I was just outside to sneak a cigarette oh my God this is all my fault --"

   "Miss, you need to calm down. Just come with me, let the nice men do their job. Sit in the back of the nice safe van..."

 

   The guy drops like a rock before he's done shutting the door.

   Faith quickly strips him of his gear, praying it won't be so bad as to draw attention. She shouldn't have worried; the uniform fits like a glove. Maybe she missed her true calling after all.

   Enough jokes.

   Time to move in.

 

**

 

   Willow is very busily trying not to be grateful they've left her bra and underwear. More accurately, she's trying not to notice it, or anything at all. Meditation always was tricky for her even under ideal circumstances. Which these are self-evidently not: Her family, minus her parents -- thank Hashem for small favors -- forced to witness her sacrificed on the altar of their own kin's betrayal. Of course, one shouldn't _always_ assume the worst --

   "You call this a knife? This wouldn't cut prime rib!"

   So much for that idea.

   "Run along, and fetch a proper blade." The _patron's_ eyes flash as he places the rejected knife on a nearby table, to the apparent relief of his servant. "After all, just because the heart has to be removed from a conscious living being doesn't mean we have to prolong the agony. Well, this particular ritual demands it regardless. But still --"

   "Your manners," Abigail interjects in clipped, precise slices, "are failing to convince me of your civilization."

   "As if." This from a sullen henchman of the opposing family, one of the were-weasels now guarding the Rosenbergs like so many sheep. "Lady, he ain't no more civilized than you or me."

   "I thought I recognized that accent." Abigail studies his features closely, her interest rekindled. "Why are you working for him?"

   "Don't have a choice, now." The demon nods at the unfolding tableau. "He's movin' on up."

   "You're taking far too long with that knife." The _patron_ sounds deceptively calm.

   "I'm doin' what I can here," comes the irritated reply from the kitchen. "Maybe you shoulda sent someone who gives a crap what sidea the table you set your spoon on."

   "Typical." The _patron_ gives a disapproving cluck of his tongue. "And if your slipshod upbringing causes me to miss my deadline, I shall happily consume your meager soul, far inferior though it is to the one I hope for. If you value your existence, you will bring me what is necessary to complete this ritual."

   "I'm tryin'!"

   "_Fine_." The patron sighs, throwing up his perfectly manicured hands. "I'll help you look."

   Willow stares at the bland stucco ceiling, trying to ignore a sense of exultation at her returning sight. The muffled thud of their retreating footsteps echoes in her ears, as if through thick cotton. Can't break out. Got to slip --

   "I know what you're doing."

   "Me?" Willow manages to turn her head a fraction of an inch, taking in a startled Nat. "I'm not doing anything."

   "Maybe not." A frown creases Nat's jaw. "But you shouldn't be able to talk. Or move --"

   "Why'd you do it?" She phrases it like a trivia question, devoid of accusation. _Who won the '69 World Series? Who wrote the book of love?_ Don't focus. Just stay loose...

   "Because I didn't know you at all. You were a stranger to me." Nat doesn't look away, acknowledging his guilt in full. "And I thought you were alone."

   "I mean your brother." The hurt is minor, but it stings regardless. "Why did you give them Rafael?"

   "I _didn't_." Nat's eyes squeeze shut, his face contorting in misery. "I owed them. I thought I was so clever, thought I could pay them back. But they didn't want me, I'm not smart enough even if they _did_ \--" He stops with a sniffle, dragging his knuckles over his eyes.

   "Tell me," she whispers. The threads are beginning to unravel, if only she can buy enough time. And she wants to understand...

   "I gave them your heart." Nat swallows, pale and ill under the flourescent lights. "Because they were going to eat his brain."

 

**

 

   Dressing up like a sheepdog doesn't make her any less of a wolf, but it's enough camouflage for Faith to make it from the police van to the back alley, clutching a purloined rifle and hoping like hell no one gets in her way. The reserves are out in force as she tries to blend in, sweating bullets and weighing the back door versus the nearby manhole. Might have to take at least one out to get through the door. Sewer's less heavily guarded -- not to mention slimy -- and it still doesn't feel right, pondering her options instead of just charging in guns a-blazing. Metaphorically speaking. At least the dress is safely tucked away in a nearby air duct, sealed in a plastic evidence bag. And nothing short of a gut wound is going to part her from it.

   The brick wall of the building seems rough beneath her back even through a layer of Kevlar, reminding her all too readily of the people trapped inside. She's on the verge of moving when the guy in front makes some weird gesture. Faith freezes in place, ready to cover the distance between them and then to the door...

   "Move it, rookie!" The man shakes his head, sparing her a disgusted glance before swiveling in place, motioning the rest of them forward. Faith conceals her excitement as she follows with blood in her eye, and a song in her heart.

   A song of death.

 

**

 

   Willow's immobilized head fails to whirl, but her mind is doing enough of a dervish for both of them. Apart from a possible indicator of zombification, ingesting brains among the magickal crowd is always a crowd-pleaser when it comes to stirring up interest among the Powers, or currying their favor to bestow said Power. Ditto hearts. Though from her standpoint it's immaterial whether they plan to eat it, sacrifice it or grow flowers with it.

   _At least there aren't puppets._ Hallucino-Xander tips her a wink, cocking his battered fedora at a rakish angle. _But I thought you were already a friend of Dorothy?_

   "He said their families have been at war for -- generations. Eons." Nat speaks rapidly, wincing as though he can feel the glares boring into his back from the phalanx of relatives. "All this power on both sides, they couldn't break the stalemate. I don't know what they wanted out of Rafe. But when I offered them you..."

   "You knew I had even more to give."

   "All those brains, and you had to go and be a wizard too? As if our parents didn't already hold you over our heads!" He looks back at the assembled throng, held back only by another mob, silently clamoring for his blood. "You were perfect for them. The purest love --"

   "Suffers the greatest loss." A chill settles into the hole in her chest. "I know the ritual."

   "You don't know the half of it." Nat pushes the words out, like at any moment he expects to be cut down in mid-sentence. "I knew you'd lost someone, that was all. They knew you had a new girlfriend before I did. And not just anyone -- something they called a _Slayer_. The two of you, connected like that? They were falling over each other trying to get to you first."

   "But Rafael was safe." And that much Willow understands. Recriminations can wait until she's safe, too.

   "I didn't fall in with a bad crowd. I went looking for _them_." Nat's fingers twiddle the chain around his neck, cradling the dangling pendant below. "I admit -- on one level it was a Jesus thing. Hookers and criminals do throw the best parties."

   "Granted." Willow avoids a smile, momentarily stumbling just the same in her unraveling.

   "But it was never about stealing. I wanted to _create_ wealth. Get out from under my family's thumb."

   The unfrown likewise distracts her. "Their green thumb of money?"

   "You don't understand. You're from the poor side of the family. Not an insult -- just the truth. I wanted -- no, I _needed_ to make my own connections." Nat's voice drops to an exhausted whisper. "Next thing I know, these -- _things_, are saying I owe them ungodly amounts and they don't take paper, and my supposed benefactor is telling me they're going to play Hannibal Lecter with my little brother's grey matter."

   "And instead you offered them me on a silver platter." Willow manages some amount of sarcasm despite her lack of concentration. "Was the lurid pulp illustration part of the deal, or is that just for your benefit?"

   Nat's eyes reluctantly drag themselves from her exposed midriff. "I think he's just a stickler for tradition."

   "And you?" _Keep him talking,_ she unnecessarily reminds herself. The quark of opportunity is almostwasnearlyhere --

   "Lazy." Nat pronounces the word like a funeral oration. "All my life I was looking for shortcuts. I wanted to violate the laws of nature." A crooked smile. "Notice I didn't say _God and nature_. Because God is _above_ natural law."

   "I disagree." Willow responds automatically, her innate argumentation coming to the fore. "What could be more natural than God?"

   "The only one who can break the law with impunity is the One who wrote it." Nat leans down, eyes shining bright. "But what if there was such a thing as a free lunch? What if we could access the divine -- without being consumed by the power of its touch?"

   Again her own brain leaps ahead of itself. "You thought you'd found a way to crack the code --"

   _There!_

   The connection is tenuous, but it's live. She can use Nat as a conduit, to reach --

   _Rafe?_

 

**

 

   Rafael shakes his head, trying to dislodge the fleeting buzz in his ear. Unable to tear his eyes away from the horrible scene unfolding before them, he finds himself thinking horribly uncharacteristic thoughts. They outnumber these thugs by at least double; if they moved as one they could --

   _Rafe?_

   "What?" Rafael looks around, blanching at the suspicious look from his captor. The demon grunts, saliva drooling in a string from its tusks.

   _Don't speak._ The voice from nowhere echoes again inside his skull, eerily familiar. _Do you know who this is?_

   _Uh..._ Rafe ignores the apparent impossibilities, concentrating on looking innocent. _I would assume Hashem, but..._

   _Oh, but I'm a girl? Just for that I am God, so you better listen up, buster, or --_

   _Willow?_

   _Ah, carp._

   _What is this?_ Rafael sways on his feet, abruptly fighting nausea. _We need to stop them --_

   _Working on it._ The terseness of Willow's reply speaks of the enormous effort being expended. _But I'm not the only big brain around here. And you've got a lot of untapped magickal potential._

   _I do?_ He almost says it out loud.

   _I just need to use it without using you._ Willow sounds strained, like she's holding back. _Faith's trying to get in._

   _How do you know?_

   _Because I know her. And you and I are going to give her some camouflage._

   _Magic?_ Rafael gulps. _I never --_

   _You're a quick study._ He can hear the reassuring smile, beneath her resolve. _Just relax._

   His mind explodes in light.

   _CHochmahBinahDa'at--_

 

**

 

   Behind the visor, she's already regretting this. Kind of. But in for a penny, in for a ton of crap if she can't pull it off. Their leader had finally gotten the rear door of the synagogue open without attracting obvious attention from inside, and now Faith sneaks down the hallway behind him -- _to sneak_ sounding slightly less shady than _to creep_ \-- hoping the dim light and baggy uniform will be enough to conceal her identity, or at least her gender.

   (_"Sex, gender, what the hell ever!"_)

   (_"No, not whatever! It's an important distinction --"_)

   (_"Yeah, if you're an eggheaded freak --"_)

   (_"Like me? Is that what you're saying?"_)

   (_"Christ, Will --"_)

   The leader makes a gesture over his shoulder that either means _stop_ or _I need a handjob, stat_. Faith feels relatively safe in assuming the former, freezing in her tracks.

   "Rogers!"

   _Huh?_ She nearly blows it at the realization he's looking directly at her. The urge to rabbit is overpowering, but the only thing she hears is concern.

   "Ease up, rookie." A reassuring hand grips her shoulder; a flicker of confusion creasing his face, as if she doesn't feel quite right. "You'll be fine."

   Faith nods, giving a silent thumbs up, praying it'll be enough. The bitter prickling at the back of her neck only increases as he turns away, motioning for the others to proceed.

   "Stack up!"

   "On it, Diego." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

   "Huh?" The leader turns to stare at at Faith, taking a step forward and stopping, blinking furiously as if she's dissolving before his eyes.

   _I'm sorry_, a voice says in her head -- a young boy? _I tried, I can't hold it --_

   "Sorry." She gives a disarming grin, holding her hands up as the rest of the team swivels, zeroing in on her. "Uh...my girlfriend plays a lotta Rainbow Six?"

   Suddenly she's looking down a very large barrel, the leader's voice pitched high with confusion or fear. "What the fu--"

   Then he staggers to one side, as the door caves in.

   Normally she'd go for the ceiling, but this much firepower demands a hastier getaway. Straight for the doorway that just opened up, diving into the dark without a second thought because anything's got to be better than staying in that cramped and narrow hallway now erupting with staccato screams, the futile rattle of gunfire.

   Something comes at her out of the dark, full of teeth. Common sense kicks in right before she squeezes and Faith unslings the rifle from her shoulder, impaling her attacker in one thrust with her finger well clear of the trigger. Stupid, to fire blind --

   "Rogers!" The leader's panicked, miserable cry stings her ears. "Where the hell are you?"

   _In for a penny --_

   Faith hurls the twitching body away, swiveling and staring back out the door she came in. More already on the way, coming in from all sides but she doesn't hesitate, breaking into a run for that dim rectangle of light. In all the confusion she could easily ditch them, get inside and make good on that rescue thing.

   But how can she look Willow in the eye -- or herself in the mirror -- if she doesn't rescue these clowns first?

   _\-- in for a pound --_

 

**

 

   Rafael stumbles, feeling his gorge rise with all that rich food he'd seen fit to stuff himself with. Then his uncle's iron grip encircles his scrawny bicep, holding him aloft.

   "Easy, boy." Armin's growl can't hide the worry at its core. "Don't give these _momzers_ any excuse."

   "I don't think they need one," Danielle murmurs.

   Rafe concentrates on keeping his lunch down, but he can't seem to take his eyes off Nat's pendant. The Star of David swings from its chain, back and forth, glinting in the light.

   "Really, Rafael." His Aunt Ellen sniffs loudly. "Staring at the poor girl like that? I never would have guessed."

   "I'll take that," the patron smoothly interjects. He stands by Nat's side, holding a long, gleaming blade in one elegantly manicured hand. "And the access code as well. No poison pen tricks, if you please."

   Nat gives Willow's lifeless hand a squeeze before stepping back from the supine sacrifice, unlooping the chain around his neck, dropping the pendant into the patron's outstretched hand.

   "_Emeth_."

   The patron frowns as he looks the object over. "What's this?"

   "It's a USB port." Nat's own frown is laced with scorn. "Let me guess. You still watch music videos."

   "Isn't anyone going to help the poor girl!" Ellen's plaintive whine causes some family members to shift uncomfortably on their feet, though the woman herself makes no move to offer said assistance.

   "Say, boy." Armin's eyes catch and hold his, compelling Rafael to stare into their depths, even as the gruff voice remains utterly casual. "I ever tell you my favorite joke?"

   _I don't think so,_ Rafe tries to say. But his tongue is thick in his mouth, his brain itching and swollen beyond the capacity of his skull.

   "What's a Jew's biggest dilemma?"

   The demon standing to their left grunts and rolls its eyes, while the one to the right appears interested. Rafael watches Armin's gaze flick to the left.

   "Free ham."

   Shock, outrage and an involuntary outburst of glee collide in Rafe's brain. "Oh my GO--"

   Armin's hand lashes out, catching the leftward demon directly in the throat, drawing back covered in blood.

   The resulting screams seem to startle the other demon more than the sudden attack, but it recovers quickly, one furry hand reaching into its coat. Rafael stumbles backward, instinctively clutching Danielle to protect her as the gun appears and Armin throws the body toward the other demon, moving swiftly forward right behind, aiming strikes at the knees and groin.

   "_Enough!_"

   Everyone halts as the second demon drops to the floor, breathing its last. The patron stands on the dais, directing his anger at the entire room, the knife in his trembling hand buried in the table an inch from Willow's unseeing eyes.

   "Now." The words are the silky purr of a predator. "We'll have an end to this."

 

**

 

   Faith doesn't feel the claws rake down her back as she piledrives her victim into the floor, compressing the spine til it snaps. The surviving squad members are finally taking her to heart and pulling out, but their retreat is cut off by the last and largest demon, all the more angry and desperate for being alone.

   "Come on, sucker." She's long since ditched the helmet and visor, and Faith grins blood between her teeth as she steps forward. The M-4 sucks as a melee weapon, but the fire axe she liberated from one of the men is proving downright wicked. "I keep this handy for close encounters..."

   The demon roars a challenge, pawing the air before leaping not at her, but at the wall.

   She doesn't fall for it, narrows her eyes and holds steady as it hits the wall and leaps off, crashing into her. Faith brings the axe up from below, cleaving it in two. The stinking mass of weight bears down on her, a howl of pain escaping her as its claws sink in through the Kevlar, piercing flesh in its death spasm.

   She untangles herself from the corpse, climbing to her feet. The men are frozen on the floor, staring at her as though she were an angel.

   "Get outta here." Faith turns and strides away down the hall, trying to hide her limp. "I got it covered."

 

**

 

   Her sight has faded once more to a grey mist, the surrounding shouts and blows registering on some level as they fail to penetrate her consciousness. The solution is almost upon her; Willow can see the end in sight, her mind as always racing ahead of itself as she intuitively jumps to conclusions. Crimson flickers of agony trace her nerves, the system's defenses now rekindled, striving in an unknowingly doomed attempt to hold on.

   But it's already over.

   _The more you tighten your grip..._ Xander throws his cape over one shoulder, brandishing his homemade light saber.

   So let go.

   _Slide._

 

**

 

   Rafael sits quietly beside Danielle, holding her hand as he stares at the floor and tries to ignore his clammy palms, the lingering urge to vomit. Whatever strange connection Willow forged between them is gone, reduced to pale memory and the frustration of knowledge on the tip of the tongue that his feeble brain is left unable to fully grasp. He's no wizard to hurl bolts of lightning; no warrior like his great-uncle.

   All he has are words.

   Armin kneels beside him. "How you two holding up?"

   "Fine." Danielle's shivers betray her lack of calm. Armin shrugs off his coat, draping it about her shoulders.

   "Are we really gonna put up with this _verkakte_ situation?" Armin's eyes are gleaming with anger, his voice barely audible through the arcane mutterings coming from the altar. "Or try to take these punks out before it's too late?"

   Danielle is silent but a moment, then nods. "Just say the word."

   Armin grunts, turning to Rafael. "You?"

   "I don't --"

   "Just say if you're with me. That's all that matters."

   "It's just..." Rafael tries not to sound plaintive. "They're _demons_."

   Armin covers his bark of laughter, turning it into a cough. Behind him, the ritual continues unabated.

   "Kid, I've fought Krauts, Arabs, and _momzer goys_ in the streets of the Bronx. You think I'm scared of some schmuck with a bumpy forehead and bad dental work?"

   Rafael can feel the return of that lightheaded feeling, the pressure of responsibility. "What do you need?"

   "Diversion. I'm out of jokes." Armin pats his pockets, coming up empty. "Also guns."

   "You? Out of jokes?"

   Both of them swivel toward the new voice as the room turns to join them. On the altar the chanting comes to a halt, the _patron_ nearly clutching his head in frustration before remembering the knife in his hand. In the doorway stands the object of their fascination; a nondescript older getleman, wearing a moderately expensive Sunday suit.

   The man tips his hat. "Impossible."

   "Charlie?" Nat's voice is hoarse with exhaustion. "What are you -- how'd you get in here?"

   "Friend of yours thought you might be in trouble. Least that's what I gathered. Couldn't hardly understand a word that boy said." Charlie fishes a pendant on a chain from inside his coat. "But he thought you might need this."

   "You." From aross the room, the _patron_ levels the knife at Charlie's sternum. "I thought I told you --"

   "Shut your piehole, Cool Hand Luke." Charlie jerks a thumb at the flabbergasted magician, nodding at an equally astounded Nat. "Don't let him snow ya, kid. I knew this moke when he was a five and dimer dealin' three-card monty."

   "And you were a wiseass punk," Armin interjects.

   Charlie narrows his eyes. "So were you."

   Armin doesn't blink. "I grew out of it."

   "So did I." Charlie breaks into a sudden grin. "Good to see you again."

   "No." The _patron_ has turned purple, free hand twitching spastically, trying to clutch something from the air. "This has gone far enough."

   "You're the one who's gone too far." Charlie doesn't budge, his bulk obdurate in the face of the other man's wrath.

   "And I still have a long way to go." The magician's voice has become a guttural sneer, the mask of civility vanished into thin air. "Much farther than your small time operation. Or that fool child's --"

   "I is being dissed!" Ollie's dreadlocks spring forth as he yanks off his cap, standing and towering over the crowd. "And you is not even defending me, is you now?"

   Nat's face ripples in shock. "You've been here the whole time?"

   "Desist this witless prattle!" Ozone thunderclouds are gathering over the _patron's_ head, his voice the hoarse croak of an ancient. The room grows darker as his eyes flare a dull, sickening crimson. "I've suffered you so-called independents too long. But no more. Now --"

   Willow sits up with a smile, pulling the collar from her neck and dropping it to the floor. "Now is the time on Shprockets vhen ve dance?"

   The _patron_ turns with a snarl. "You --"

   He freezes in place, one arm outstretched.

   "What the hell --" one demon breathes.

   Willow remains likewise immobile.

   "Magickal duels," another snorts. "Excitement city. Someone, get me some popcorn --"

   Beads of sweat form on the _patron's_ forehead, the blade quivering in his grasp as the room continues to darken, a noisome chill seeping into the bones of all assembled. Ebony tendrils snake through the air, surrounding both figures.

   "Mommy --" someone whimpers.

   Willow's eyes are almost completely black.

   Rafael can feel his bladder screaming. His gaze flicks involuntarily to the left; to the right --

   Faith stands frozen as their eyes meet, axe raised overhead, ready to bury it in the skull of the demon in front of her.

   Rafe's guard looks in that direction.

   The axe comes down.

   Rafe grabs Danielle by one hand, dragging her away from the resulting explosion. The crowd surges outward in a wave, a horde of panicked friends and relations trampling the remaining demons in their haste to vacate the premises. He can see Armin among them, dodging frantically as he tries to avoid being pulled along in their wake, then trying merely to remain upright. It's a losing battle with the sheer numbers stacked against him, but somehow the old man fights his way free without injuring anyone too badly. Rafe opens his mouth to yell, then thinks better of it, waving his hand.

   Armin reaches them in five quick strides, pausing only to stoop and relieve a fallen demon of its automatic. In the thick of battle, Faith has switched to using the axe handle while a shrieking Ellen flails about her with an enormous handbag, both women laying their foes low with ruthless efficiency. One of the fallen demons is trying to crawl quietly for the door, emitting a howl as Ellen's heel comes down squarely in its leg.

   "Wow." Willow is moving, crossing the space between herself and the _patron_ with the grace of a gazelle. The magician stands frozen, equal parts fear and frustration etched upon his face.

   "Willow!" Abigail is leaning on Danielle, favoring one leg. The rest of the room has come to a stop, all eyes upon the duellists.

   "You really are pathetic." The redhead surveys her foe, hands on her hips, seemingly unconcerned with her state of _dishabille_. "All that and for what? So you could be king of the world?"

   The _patron's_ lip twitches, a bubble of spit working its way free from the corner of his mouth.

   "You know you can't take me," Willow sighs. "So the question becomes, what _are_ you going to do?"

   With a wave of her hand, the _patron_ stumbles, catching himself at the last second.

   "Nathaniel!" The man straightens, ignoring Willow as he wipes his mouth, straightens his cummerbund. "Attend me!"

   A chill of angry disappointment settles in Rafael's gut to see Nat walking over to the man, standing beside him like a faithful dog.

   "This is silly. He can't help you." Willow's lips curl in a reluctant and cynical half-smile. "And I'm not going to kill you. Even though we both know I could eat your power. I wouldn't even have to open you up. Or take a bite."

   "That's my granddaughter," Abigail whispers, sounding proud and more than slightly relieved. "The _baal shem tov_!"

   "Willow, _tatelah_, you know I love you." Armin's eyes bore into the _patron's_ back. "But some, you put in the ground!"

   "And you'd like to put her in the ground, wouldn't you boy?" The magician ignores them as he turns to Nat, one arm sliding about the younger man, voice dropping to a sibilant whisper. "All your life they held her over you like the sword of Damocles. Never good enough, that's what you were told. Well I can make you better than her, just say the word and that's all it takes, how about it?"

   Willow returns Nat's empty stare in silence. Across the room Faith raises her arm, stopping at a glance from the witch.

   "Come on, boy. I know we've had our differences, tried to cheat me with a fake amulet, waste my precious time but surely you can see what needs to be done here, always knew you had a good head on your shoulders --" The _patron_ struggles to avoid Willow's gaze, increasing desperation seeping through his words. "Tell me and it's yours! Just tell me what you want --"

   His face drains of blood as the collar slides into place with a click.

   Nat's voice is a whisper. "For you to know what it feels like."

   "Get back!" Willow abruptly sounds panicky. "Move --"

   Nat trips over his own feet and falls to the floor, staring open-mouthed. The _patron_ is glowing like the heart of a star, his face a rigid rictus before the glow becomes too intense to bear. Rafael instinctively shields his eyes as a silent thunderclap rocks the building.

   When he looks back, there is only a smoldering grease spot.

   "Feedback," Willow helpfully explains, loud enough for everyone to hear over the ringing in their ears. Faith is striding toward her, pulling off her flak jacket and handing it to the other woman.

   "Thanks, sweetie." Willow gratefully accepts the jacket. "Yeah, when you did that -- did you know it would remove his control over all of that stolen power?"

   Nat swallows, one hand over his mouth, staring at the stain on the floor.

   "Didn't think so." Willow sounds gentle as she fastens up her coat, walking over to him and offering a hand. Nat regards it a moment before accepting, weakly climbing to his feet.

   "So you didn't even know what he wanted with your brother?" Willow looks up at Nat, standing slumped over, seemingly shorter. "Would you like to?"

   Nat returns her gaze with haggard eyes. "Do I want to?"

   "I don't know." Willow shrugs. "You might not get the joke. It's kind of a geek thing --"

   "Tell me." Rafael's own legs are feeling shaky, but he can't help it. Curiosity always was his greatest curse. "I want to know."

   Willow turns to him, raising one hand. "Easier if I show you."

   Her fingers trace lines in the air, sketching out sparkling formulae on an invisible chalkboard. Rafael frowns, doing his best but failing to follow along. Something about --

   "Oh, no." But Nat's groan doesn't exactly scream calamity. The older boy points at the tail end, wearing a smile full of trepidation.

   "Are you sure the solution is pie?"

   Willow grins. "Wait'll I tell Giles."

   Rafe gazes uncomprehendingly at the glowing _PI(E)_.

   "All well and good," Abigail interjects. The matriarch limps over to her grandsons, still supported on one arm by Danielle. "But I have one more announcement to make." She levels a finger at Nat's chest.

   "You are disowned."

   Nat looks as befuddled as Rafael feels. "You mean --"

   "As of this moment, you are out of my will." The eldest Rosenberg stands like a rock, steadfast and stern, crumbling only at the last moment. "And I'm sorry...for both of us."

   The sound from Nat's throat is harsh. But when Rafe looks closer, the tears are those of laughter.

   "I thought --" Nat wipes his eyes, ignoring the rest of the room gaping at him. "All this time...I thought you did that _years_ ago?"

   Abigail remains silent. Nat turns away, chuckling, shaking his head.

   "All this time..."

   Charlie and Ollie glance at each other. Ollie shrugs, waving to Nat.

   "Come on home, brudda."

   With a sigh, the humbled son turns to do just that.

   "Hey."

   Nat turns to regard his younger brother. "Yeah?"

   Rafael's affection is tempered with uncharacteristic frankness, even judgment.

   "Don't be a _schmuck_."

 

**

 

   "And I do _not_ play that much Rainbow Six!"

   "Counterstrike too." Faith leans in close to a blushing Rafe, as if to divulge a secret. "I hear her blow off steam all the time."

   "I do not! Much..."

   "And you should hear her mouth when Xander pones her in deathmatch."

   Willow gives up, fleeing the room with some remnants of dignity intact.

   "Ah, there you are." A beaming Abigail bears down on her. "I just missed your father at the hotel. Apparently they checked out early."

   "That's okay." Willow sounds crestfallen despite her best efforts. "Mom always said she hated Prague."

   "But I did get their itinerary." Abigail produces a scrap of paper, tucking it into Willow's hand. "Just in case you feel like calling."

   "I might." Willow tries to hide her disappointment.

   "I meant what I said, you know." Abigail gives her an affectionate squeeze, the wrinkles in her face deepening with a knowing smile. "You are not a failure. If you want to change that, you've got your whole life ahead of you,"

   Willow looks over her shoulder, hearing Faith's laughter ring out in the other room.

   "I think your father saw himself as Reb Saunders," Abigail continues, smoothly returning to her original subject. "You reminded him of himself. Too much brains, not enough heart."

 

**

 

   _Willow stands before her father's recliner, biting her lip as Ira folds down his newspaper to examine her report card._

   _"An A?"_

   _"I was tired and there was frog dissection and --"_

   _Ira returns to his paper. "You will do better."_

   _"Yes dad."_

   _"Good."_

 

**

 

   "Maybe you're right," Willow concedes. "Though it always felt like Mom put more pressure on me."

   "Eh." Abigail dismisses this with a wave of her hand. "Women. What can you do?"

   "Shoot them." Danielle emerges from her room, hair back in a kerchief, carrying a cardboard box. "Here. Going away present."

   "If this is the part where I'm supposed to say you shouldn't have -- my skills are kind of atrophied." Willow peers into the box. "Uh...what is it?"

   "Multiple its." Danielle pulls out a jar of white liquid, giving it a shake before handing it to Willow. "Five different strains of bacteria and yeast, in various combinations."

   Willow blinks. "Like yogurt?"

   "Only better." Danielle smiles, pushing back her hair. "Cultures for life. Take care of them, and they'll last for the rest of your life."

   "Sounds like having kids."

   "It's a lot of responsibility," Abigail interjects. "She's still young. Give her time."

   "I appreciate the offer, but my track record isn't the greatest with that kind of thing." Willow hands the jar back with a sigh. "Plus we don't exactly have mobile refrigeration."

   "Then take one for the road." Danielle appears undissuaded. "Just don't let it sit too long with the cap on. They tend to go boom."

   "Fermentation for the win." Willow gingerly accepts her present with a gracious nod, offering an awkward, one-armed hug. "I'm glad everything worked out okay. Mostly."

   "He'll be all right," Danielle murmurs in her ear as she returns the hug. "I'll keep an eye on him."

   "Which one?"

   "Does it matter?" Danielle releases her with a sly grin. "Go. Before I do something I'll regret."

   "I really don't know where she gets it from," Abigail remarks as they head down the hall. "Anyway -- someone else would like a word, before you leave."

   "Who --" Willow cuts off as they enter the drawing room. Armin rises from his chair, eyes bright and gleaming.

   "I'll cut to the chase." He nods to Abigail, who returns the gesture as she closes the door behind her.

   "I got contacts. I want you to have 'em."

   Confusion rears its ugly head before Willow heads it off at the pass. "I assume we're not talking pre-Lasik?"

   "Took Israel forever to get in bed with Uncle Sam. Thought we were a bunch of commies." Armin hands her a business card, one side covered in cramped, miniscule block lettering. "Took me years to get those names. Maybe the spooks can give you a hand."

   "That's --" Willow bites back _sweet_. "Really thoughtful. But I think my usual beat is kind of outside their jurisdiction."

   "You mean experience?" Armin gives her a cryptic smile. "You'd be surprised."

   "Yeah. Our cooperative effort with the military...didn't go so well."

   "Willow, you take friends where you can find them." Armin shrugs. "Use it or not. But don't just throw it away."

   Willow studies the list. "Burn after reading?"

   "You said it. I didn't."

 

**

 

   "So we survived."

   "Not out of the woods yet." Willow hands over her parking pass, drumming her fingers on the edge of the windowsill. "We still have to get out of the city. Remember how much trouble Kurt Russell had."

   "Or Larry Underwood." Faith notices confusion on Willow's face. "_The Stand_?"

   "I'm impressed."

   "Don't be." Faith shrugs. "Wasn't the uncut version. Besides --"

   "Had a lot of time in the joint?" Willow's jocularity seems somewhat forced. "Well, you've got even more ahead of you. Like the rest of your life."

   Faith's contemplating a response when the dulcet power chords of _Reign In Blood_ ring out from the back.

   "Just let it go to voicemail." At least Will's keeping her eyes on the road as Faith unbuckles and scrambles over the seat. "You can't stay back there, you know. I don't want to feel like a chauffeur --"

   "Dana!" Faith's eagerness and enthusiasm are evident. "What's up? I was just gonna call --"

   "_I'm sorry._" The voice on the other end is cracking, fast approaching broken. Faith suppresses her instinctive harshness.

   "Don't be sorry, kiddo." The Slayer shakes her head when Willow looks in the mirror, holding up her hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Just tell me what happened."

   A hesitant sniffle reaches her through the electronic void.

   "_I know I ask so much of you, but -- I can't do this again._" Dana doesn't sound at all hysterical, her misery complete. "_You have to help me..._"

   "Doing what I can from here." Faith settles into the clean, cool vinyl with a sigh. This could take a while...

   "_Shouldn't have called._" And now the younger girl sounds frightened, as though a tidal wave of destruction were bearing down upon them all. "_Sorry --_"

   Faith swallows her protest at the sound of the click.

   "What happened?" Willow glances in the mirror again, typical worry coming to the fore. "Should we --"

   "Don't sweat." Faith stows the phone and scrambles her way back to the front, strapping herself in. "Kinda surprised she made it this long."

   Willow sneaks a peek at the Slayer before returning her attention to the road. "You don't want to call her back?"

   "Course I do." Faith looks annoyed, then merely exasperated in that patiently explaining way. "If she doesn't call back tonight, I'll give her a ring in the morning. But we can't keep holding her hand forever."

   She's waiting for Will to say something, like maybe Dana doesn't want a holding hand. Maybe just someone to talk to. But the witch remains silent, intent on navigation.

   Outside the streetlights are just coming on, silver in the meager drizzle. Faith stares through the mist, reminding herself. She _will_ call.

   First thing in the morning.

 

**

 

   "Quite the upset today." Abigail squints as she scans the headlines, reaching for her reading glasses. "I imagine the balance of power is all thrown out of whack."

   "You're not wrong."

   "I don't think the police were satisfied with our answers, either."

   "It's uncanny how right you are."

   "I just hope the girls are all right, and -- what are you looking at?" Abigail peers over her glasses at Armin, who stands staring out the window into the street.

   "Thought I saw something. My mistake." Armin heads for the door. "Be right back."

   "Do be careful."

   "Always am."

   He knows he's getting old when he doesn't take the stairs two at a time. Makes him wish he still had the backup pistol. But if wishes were briskets...

   "Oh! Excuse me, sir." Armin smiles, doffing his cap. The light rain feels cool and good on his balding head as he points to some random vehicle. "Don't suppose you saw some punks messing around with my car?"

   "Afraid I didn't." The younger man removes his glasses, wiping them on the tail of his shirt. Early thirties, few days stubble; reasonably fit under the loose fitting clothes. An expensive camera hangs about his neck, its lens gleaming wet in the light of a streetlamp.

   "Oh, you'd have seen them." Armin smiles, clapping one hand on the man's shoulder. "Seeing as how you've been parked out here for an hour taking pictures of my sister's place."

   The man opens his mouth, pausing as Armin's thumb poises on the verge of digging in.

   "Tell me in one word." Armin's enunciation is soft yet precise. "What do you want?"

   The man doesn't hesitate. "The Slayer."

   "That's two." Armin considers this before drawing the other man close, in what might look to an outsider like a friendly hug.

   "Word of advice, kid. Touch my niece and I'll break your legs in nine places. After?"

   The hidden wrist knife flicks the leather strap. To his credit, the spy doesn't move a muscle as his camera comes away in the older man's grasp.

   Armin performs a credible imitation of a shark. "Then not so nice."

 

**

 

   _Tara:_

   Here I go writing. As in putting pen to paper instead of endlessly agonizing over some Platonic ideal of the perfect letter. Committing to reality, smudges and all.

   (Although I don't know where I can mail this. At least I never had the Santa conundrum to contend with as a kid.)

   Anyway. We've got one more night in the city, but I told my grandma I wanted to rent a hotel room. No telling when I'll have the chance to visit again. So here I am at a desk, looking at the New York skyline like the lyrics from a song and listening to Faith in the shower and since the last time I wrote so much has changed, hasn't it? I mean, can you believe it? Me and Faith?

   (Probably. You always did have more imagination than me.)

   I've been meaning to write for a long time now, but in typical apocalyptic fashion, something always came up. I had another stone I was going to leave for you, but that got lost in our mad dash to escape the sinkhole of Sunnydale. I had completely planned to come out again before we left town, and I just realized all three of those previous sentences started with I. As in, it's all about me and how full of excuses I am.

   I wonder if that's how my parents felt? They kept meaning to stay in touch and just never got around to it?

   Everything since we left Sunnydale -- some of the stuff before...

   I don't know if I can love Faith as much as I love you. Kind of says it all I don't use the past tense. Don't know if I can ever love anyone that much.

   As lame as it sounds, and as much as it makes me think I'm still trying to make it all about me: I hope you're okay. I hope you're in a good place like Buffy sho was. I hope that some day, I can see you again. Even if that means -- well, you know.

   It seems vaguely blasphemous to ask you to watch over us, like I think you're God. Or Alanis. But I hope you are. Watching us. Because we need it. Me and Faith and Dana, all the Scoobies, all the new Slayers, hell the whole world needed you

   Promised myself I wouldn't let that happen. But I almost made it to the end of the page without losing it, right? Sorry. Just haven't felt thought like this in a long time.

   This was good, though. I'll try to do it more often. Without being so much of a Debbie Downer.

   This is Ripley, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off.

   (had to end with a joke after all that)

   Love

   your Willow

 

 

 

 

         _When shall we three meet again_  
         _In thunder, lightning or in rain..._

 

\--

Glossary/Author's Notes

 

**altekocker** \- old shit/old fart

**baal shem tov** \- master of the good name (Hassidic/Kabbalist)

**bestye** \- beast[s]

**borucha** \- I hang my head in shame to say that when I was trying to come up with some of my own Yiddish, I forgot to write down what this supposedly meant. Anyone? Bueller?

**boychik** \- boy/young man

**bubbeh** \- grandmother

**chaverim** \- friends

**geyler** \- redhead

**goenik naches** \- Another phrase I came up with that I now have no idea of its meaning. I _think_ it's like "genius granddaughter".

**goy/goyim** \- nation[s]; colloqially, non-Jewish person. Not generally disparaging, unlike 'shikse' which is less neutral.

**Hashem** \- the Name (G-d)

**lashon ha-ra** \- evil tongue (gossip)

**mechitza** \- in synagogue, a divider separating men's and women's sections

**megillah** \- tedious discourse (see: Watcher Exposition)

**mishegas** \- bad craziness

**momzer** \- bastard

**schlemiel** \- bungler

**schlemazl** \- sad sack (I know I didn't use these last two, but c'mon, can you really blame me for including them?)

**schmuck** \- idiot, moron (lit. penis)

**schnorrer** \- beggar, mooch

**schvartze** \- black [person]

**sheitel** \- wig or half-wig worn by Orthodox married women to cover the hair (falls under 'tzniut')

**shikse** \- disparaging term for non-Jewish woman

**shmendrik** \- stupid and ineffectual nobody

**shtup** \- push; colloquially, referring to the sexual act

**shvanz** \- penis

**tateleh** \- dear little one

**tsuris** \- any trouble from aggravation to calamity

**tuchus** \- rear end

**tzniut** \- set of laws encompassing modesty in dress and behavior

**verkakte** \- crappy

**yad** \- ritual pointer used to point to text during readings of the Torah

 

<http://www.interfaithfamily.com/spirituality/religious_journeys/An_Orthodox_Teen_in_an_Interfaith_Family.shtml>

<http://reason-and-rhyme.blogspot.com/2006/11/memoir-of-non-irish-non-jew_21.html>

<http://www.threejews.net/2008/12/reflections-on-orthodox-bar-mitzvah.html>

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_Mafia>

"Isn't Orthodox Jewish lesbian an oxymoron?"  
<http://www.orthodykes.org/faq.html>

"Friday the Rabbi Wore Lace: Jewish Lesbian Erotica"

"Blow a great shofar to proclaim our freedom." (Greater New York Council of Gay and Lesbian Jewish Organizations)

"Let the child hear you sigh every day. If you don't know what he's done to make you sad, he will." (How To Be a Jewish Mother)

The woman of the house should light the Shabbat candles; the man, only if there is no woman or the woman is unable.

Advice for newbies: "Don't drive in New York City." Taxi and subway. RIGHT TURN ON RED IS ILLEGAL UNLESS A SIGN SAYS OTHERWISE. "Downtown" is southern tip of Manhattan; "midtown" is 42nd St, the library, Times Square, Port Authority; "uptown" borders the length of Central Park on either side - Upper East and West Side, big money + museums.

Sacha Cohen's brother's Dreidel song:  
<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XzGsO0D3KBo>

Cast of Broadway's "Hairspray" sings Dreidel:  
<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lAAfPvOD7s>

"Growing up, my folks would eat bacon and call it 'veal', giggling at each bite, like eleven year olds smoking their first joint."

See Buffy 1x09 "Puppet Show", Angel 1x07, "Bachelor Party", and Angel 3x12, "Provider" for more plot precedents/ripoffs.

From [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/):  


> _...certain Kabbalistic inscriptions harm or ward against vampires, but not automatically like the cross -- it's a blood thing. The cross is where Jesus *shed his blood*. Whether or not there's a Big Judeo Christ Muslim All Father, the crucifixion had a major mystical impact. Blood, sacrifice, holiness=unique effectiveness against vamps! That way, you have the cross being a vamp repellent without getting into the "So, Xtianity is right?" thing. The vampire warding ritual that used crosses may have an obscure Jewish version, maybe based on the eruv. But you can just put in "kabbalistic/Hebrew scriptures on parchment." Possibly by using mezuzot--the mezuzah--as a focus. Re-hanging the mezuzot on the doorways with blessings?_

 

Predator and the hero's journey:  
<http://web.archive.org/web/20080118105144/http://www.indiayogi.com/content/mythology/f_predator.asp>

 

A jousting/horse scenario was regrettably unused, as I felt Faith would want to be more undercover infiltration. But I'm sure I can come up with an excuse at some point :)


End file.
